


Apple Crumble

by itsrainingcats



Category: Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Snow White - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Snow White Fusion, Alternate Universe - Snow White and the Huntsman Fusion, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Fairy Tale Style, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Crack, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Newt Scamander, Protective Tina Goldstein, Romantic Comedy, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Snow White Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-03-09 17:51:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18922057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsrainingcats/pseuds/itsrainingcats
Summary: “I’d like her heart, Mr. Scamander, in this box.”Aka, the Snow White/Fairytale AU fanfiction literally nobody asked for (myself included) but I wrote anyway because I like to procrastinate my responsibilities! Featuring Newt as the huntsman, Tina as Snow White and Vinda Rosier as the evil queen/duchess.





	1. Ominous Humming

Newt didn’t _mean_ to get hired as a huntsman for Duchess Rosier. It was a complete and utter accident. After his… interesting schooling experience, Newt wanted to find his place in the world. The Big Job Quest™ hadn’t been a complete disaster. He survived for a fair time at the library job. An entire five hours and twenty-three minutes, to be exact, before getting fired for spending five hours twenty minutes of said shift curled under a desk with the library cat, Winston, purring away on his lap. Work is all about the connections, right? Well, Winston had been devastated to see him go. Okay, admittedly the whole thing probably could be counted as a slight disaster. Anyway, it felt like he’d downed an entire pint of liquid luck the day he was absentmindedly browsing through the Daily Prophet and spotted the words ‘magical beasts’ in the job section. And how in the name of Merlin was he supposed to know that the job entailed destroying, rather than protecting, them? Alright, the advertisement had been pretty clear, looking back. The word ‘huntsman’ at the top should really have been the big give away. But Newt had never been one for labels and the description clearly asked for someone with a ‘vast knowledge and connection with animals, fantastic and creepy’. How could he not apply instantly?

He had been mortified when, on his first day as huntsman, he realised the true meaning of his job. The servant, a stocky woman who always seemed to be armed with a bread knife, had been nattering on about the responsibility of pest control for a good ten minutes before he found himself exclaiming:

“You mean you want me to er, kill them?”

The lady had merely chuckled as if Newt had told him some amusing anecdote about hiccupping kelpies. By the end of their conversation, he was so pale that she asked him if he needed a sick bucket. Applying for this job, he appreciated at that moment, was the daftest thing Newt had ever done. What was Theseus’ most favoured expression to use on him again? The fire's lit, but the cauldron's empty. Maybe Theseus was right.

And so, Newt found himself staggering through the grounds, praying that his intentionally loud shuffling would alert any nearby beasties. The Duchess had asked for her gardens to be de-gnomed today. Her servant very generously offered Newt a jarvey to assist with this activity, to which Newt had politely declined. Honestly, Newt thought to himself, gnomes are a blessing. Of course, the gnomehills aren’t a conventionally attractive garden feature, not to mention irritating when you stumble over them, but what is art without risk?

Three gnomes sat on the peacock water-fountain feature, observing the strange man with interest. They had never met a human who, instead of chasing or whirling them around, burst into tears. The lead gnome, Pudsey, felt most disheartened. He knew for a fact that they were not ugly creatures, having been blessed with several water-sources in the garden to inspect their appearance in. Nor had they taunted the human, despite his trespassing on their territory. Pudsey felt conflicted.

“I can’t kill them,” Newt told the human-less garden.

And yet, Newt didn’t particularly fancy the idea of someone less charitable to gnomes to take his position. Someone (he shuddered at the thought) who might unleash a jarvey on the poor things. The gnomes were hardly hurting anyone. Some muggles even decorated their gardens with their interpretation of a gnome. The way Newt saw it, giving up would be just as bad murdering them, if not worse. It was quite the conundrum. A gnome tottered over to him, like a walking potato, and stared at him in what the gnome probably considered an intimidating manner.

Pudsey found the human most peculiar. Really, he quite enjoyed being thrown sometimes. Once, someone with particularly lousy aim had fired him directly at the carrot patch. Now Pudsey wasn’t overly fond of carrots, he was more of a lettuce sort of guy, but he’d skipped third breakfast that day so felt an immense wave of gratitude to the tiny-headed creature for doing that. He evaluated Newt with critical eyes and huffed. This human didn’t look capable of picking up a gnome, he probably couldn’t even throw him as far as the tulip patch.

Newt inconspicuously opened his suitcase and stepped right in. He’d bewitched it a while ago with an undetectable extension charm. Currently there was just a potting shed, very convenient for when he wanted to avoid family gatherings or irritate Theseus (“Newt, I’ve been looking for you everywhere, where’ve you been?” “Under my bed” “No, I specifically looked there after last time, all I could find was that bloody case”). A small pile of books currently lived on the desk and he riffled through them. Gnomes, he deduced after ten minutes, had to have been one of the most misunderstood creatures out there. Every entry on them detailed various ways of disposing of them, warning of their razor-sharp teeth and speedy breeding habits. There were no instructions on how to set them free or tell them to run away. He sighed and decided now was as good a time as any to eat a sandwich.

Pudsey, meanwhile, was most curious about the suitcase the human had stepped into. He had never seen a wizard disappear like that. It was, he supposed, rather like a portable gnomehill. Odd, he thought, as humans seemed too large for burrows. He always reckoned them to be more cave-occupied creatures. Gnomes didn’t know too much about humans. It could, perhaps, be useful for him to acquire more knowledge about what exactly humans do, aside from toss gnomes. In the name of science, he lifted the case, shrugged his wee shoulders, and jumped down.

Newt frowned at the gnome, who had thankfully landed on his pile of blankets and was grumbling to itself. He momentarily worried that it was hurt but no, the gnome seemed even more energetic than ever, scuttling around the potting shed with interest. Great, he thought, now I have to get that pesky little bugger out of here as well.

He was rummaging through his drawers for a net when Pudsey chanced upon his sandwich. The thing about gnomes that not many people know is that they love mayonnaise. There’s something about the condiment that really appeals to their taste-buds. Pudsey delicately licked the bread until it was clean of mayonnaise, then wolfed down the lettuce and cheese for good measure. He did not approve of bread.

“My sandwich!” Newt said, appalled at the sight before him.

Initially, the only word that could describe how Newt felt would be distraught. He had no idea that gnomes were such sandwich-thieves. And that’s when it hit him. There was absolutely no need to kill the gnomes. He could keep them down here, instead, and perhaps move them to a gnome-friendly zone after his first day of work was complete. Brilliant! He always kept a handy supply of bread, cheese, mayonnaise and lettuce down here. Although, cheese was quite pricey these days and the gnome hardly seemed impressed by the bread…

Twenty minutes later, Newt had an entire bagful of mayonnaise covered lettuce. Feeling rather chuffed with his masterplan, he set up a tempting trail of snacks leading sneakily into his suitcase. It was, typically, at this moment that she crossed paths with him for the first time.

“Having a nice lunch break, Mr. Scamander?”

Newt startled so much that he tripped over his own feet and landed face first onto a regrettably placed mayonnaise lettuce. Wiping the condiment from his face, he looked for the source of the voice. Tina Goldstein. It just had to be. He’d heard rumours, of course, about the girl with hair as black as ebony and skin as white as snow. Codswallop. Honestly, anyone with skin as pale as snow is most probably dead. Tina’s skin, thank Merlin, retained the flushed tell-tale sign that she was, in fact, alive. Her hair, whilst dark, was more easily comparable to the fur of a niffler. She barely spared him a second-glance, hiding a smile beneath a handkerchief as she resumed her walk.

One gnome with particularly hairy feet started licking Newt’s hand, prompting him to get back to work. It wasn’t long before gnomes were popping up from just about everywhere – the flowerbeds, trees, long-grass and even a couple from the sewage pipe that ran through the garden. Pudsey, of course, assisted with this mission. The generous human was willing to sacrifice an entire two jars of mayonnaise, it was the life that he felt his people deserved. He knew he’d go down in all the gnome history books now as the greatest, most glorious ruler. He made an outrageously high-pitched squeal and his people came running.

“You say, Mr. Scamander, that you’ve disposed of all the gnomes?” Rosier’s servant asked, anxiously, a few hours later.

Newt fidgeted slightly. He didn’t particularly approve of telling lies.

“You’ll have no more trouble from them.” He assured her, kindly.

“My mistress will be impressed. You’ll return tomorrow?” She asked, hopefully.

He could visibly see the relief, smoothing worried creases on her face away. Newt hadn’t yet had the pleasure of meeting Vinda Rosier. The illusive woman had married into the Goldstein family a few years ago. Her husband, tragically, got trampled to death by a giant a mere month after the ceremony. The Goldstein family seemed to be clouded in bad-fortune. Their younger daughter was kidnapped a long time ago. He wondered, vaguely, if Tina had been dished any bad luck of her own. Then again, having a father dead and sister missing certainly counted for bad luck in his books.

“Of course.”

And he stuck to that promise. The Duchess’ grounds were, it seemed, thriving with local wildlife. His suitcase grew bigger than the town zoo in the first week of his employment. The issue with Newt was that he had a problem with letting things go. Not in the grudge sense, oh no, that’d be far too much hassle. But letting animals out of his case? I mean, sure, if he’d found the ideal environment for a population of gnomes, he’d set them free. As of yet? Everyone hated gnomes. A copy of ‘de-gnome, nice home’ was as commonly found in households as toothbrushes. Now, Newt wasn’t stupid or cruel, and he knew that a potting shed full of gnomes simply would not do. So, naturally, he built around the outside of his shed, establishing a gnome-safe area with that type of earth that doesn’t crumble instantly but is also soft enough to dig through. The gnomes were chuffed. Pudsey was crowned with the mayonnaise lid. However, the gnomes were no longer alone in that bewildering suitcase of his, not anymore.

A couple of days ago, the Duchess had requested that Newt ‘annihilate’ the red caps that had infested her sewage pipes. The red caps in question were confused, angry little things. They’d been aiming for a mountain in a strange land named Mirkland. Newt politely explained the situation to a mild young red cap with a name unpronounceable. In actuality, the red cap had no idea what the man was saying, having no knowledge of human speech due to his young age, though he admired Newt’s shoes. In the muggle world, they say you can never truly know someone unless you walk in their shoes. In the red cap community, they tell you to judge someone’s character by how hard their shoe would hurt if it whacked you. Pitying the now homeless creatures, Newt opened his case and the red caps marched in. His shoes were nice enough to follow into large suitcases, you see.

Meanwhile, in his absence Pudsey had taken it upon himself to find more condiment for his people. Pudsey’s eyesight had been suffering lately, so he accidentally grabbed the ketchup. He did not like ketchup. He emptied the contents of the bottle on the other side of the shed and declared it their sworn and deadly enemy. The red caps normally favoured the blood of a battle, though ketchup seemed even more impressive to them. Ketchup was not only red (the colour of everything good) but also delicious. Moreover, it didn’t stain their clothes (which were red anyway). Newt had, of course, suggested to them later that evening that he take them outside, help them find their way to this Mirkland place, but the red caps saw no need to find some dingy old mountain when they had a steady supply of ketchup right here.

The next group of creatures to find home within Newt’s suitcase were the bowtruckles. The Duchess had complained that morning that there was a tree blocking her view of the forest. Newt personally found the issue of having a tree block more trees rather an unusual predicament, but he needed more money to buy the various condiments required for his children, so hastened to inspect this tree. The tree in question was a fine looking wiggentree with emerald green leaves that shone in the daylight.

“It’s a nice tree, isn’t it?” Tina called to him.

She smirked as he jumped at her voice again. Newt saw it as an accomplishment that he didn’t crumple to the ground this time. Today, Tina was adorned in a coat the colour of occamy wings, apple in hand.

“Er, quite.” He replied intelligently.  

“Dad used a twig from it for a potion once.” She said, wistfully, “They like wood lice and fairy eggs. Have a nice day, Mr. Scamander.”

She strolled onward, crunching into her apple with satisfaction, before Newt could compose himself enough to hasten a response. Wood lice? Fairy eggs? He scrutinised the branches and, sure enough, there they were. Fantastic, spindly creatures, an entire branch of bowtruckles. And, with Tina’s wise words ringing in his head, he distracted them with a delicious bowl of woodlice. The bowtruckles barely seemed to notice their tree had changed surroundings completely, scurrying back into their tree when, tummies full of woodlice, Newt returned them to their home.

**

He saw her again later that day, in a corner of the gardens. Newt had been gathering woodlice and such for his creatures, mumbling under his breath about the demanding nature of bowtruckles. She was cloaked in red, looking around wildly, like she expected a basilisk to pop out at her.

“Tina,” He said, making her startle for once, “Didn’t mean to make you jump.”

“You didn’t. If anything, I scared you.”

Newt felt he was unqualified to answer this. He did, indeed, have a skittish nature and it was highly probable that he reflexively jumped upon seeing her. She had that sort of beauty that made him chew his bottom lip and wish he was slightly better with the whole socialising thing. 

Tina squinted at him, as though sizing him up for something, “I would like to go for a walk tomorrow. Through the woods. Would you care to accompany me? I’m not allowed to go alone, you see. But who better to join me than the man who defeated a whole troop of red caps?”

Her eyes seemed to twinkle and Newt briefly noted how much they reminded him of salamanders. What drew her to the forest? He’d only gone in there a couple of times to speak to the centaurs. Centaurs don’t like suitcases, even if you tempt them with star charts. They don’t trust boxes. The centaurs were nothing compared with the forest, though. It was a dark, eerie forest, with trees that seemed to bend and stare at any intruders.

“I, er, quite right.” He mumbled.

She beamed at him, “I will see you tomorrow, then. Three o’clock. Give the gnomes my regards.”

**

“You are the huntsman, I assume?”

Newt met Duchess Rosier’s gaze for a second and nodded, quickly. He had been summoned here to her office for the first time this afternoon. Newt supposed she must have discovered, somehow, that he’d been avoiding slaughtering any of the so called ‘pests’ on her grounds.

“You are not what I imagined.”

Newt shuddered in relief that he didn’t look like a cold-blooded killer. Her office was unnaturally cold so he could disguise it as a shiver pretty easily.

“I have a job for you, Mr. Scamander. It is… delicate. You must not tell anyone what I want you to do. I trust you understand the consequences of disobeying me will be severe.”

It was at that moment that he realised exactly who was sat before him. Vinda Rosier, with her perfectly painted scarlet lips and dainty clothes, had been talk of the town for a long time. She was friends with the likes of Grindelwald, the corrupt wizard who kept pushing a no-maj agenda. Frequently, he’d seen her in the Daily Prophet next to the most horrific quotes. Her husband’s death had roused some suspicion, especially given that the magic beans were sold to Jack by a woman that fit her description remarkably well. Vinda Rosier was not a princess or a queen. She was a well-dressed psychopath. There was a swirl of madness in her beautiful eyes, a danger that seduced men and women alike. He wondered what dreadful act she’d expect of him next. Given the threatening tone behind her words, he feared the safety of nearby unicorns and mooncalves.

“You-you can trust me.” He said, trying to mimic the posture of someone more confident with little success.

She scanned him with evaluating, critical eyes.

“I will have to. It concerns my step-daughter, Tina. You have, doubtless, seen her about?”

“The girl with salamander eyes?” He said before thinking about it.

His cheeks flushed and he mentally prepared for getting scolded for the out of place comment. Rosier’s composure cracked, however, and she sneered at him, apparently pleased with this line.

“I see we are on the same page.”

He chewed his lip and tried to look as ordinary as possible. It seemed that Newt’s innocent compliment was taken as a criticism on Tina in the Duchess’ eyes. He wasn’t entirely sure what her problem with Tina was. He’d never seen them out and about together. Then again, he’d never seen Rosier out of her house before.  

“I would like her to be disposed of. She poses a threat to our town.”

Newt let his lip go to look the Duchess in the eye. She was completely serious! What threat could Tina possibly serve? Newt was, perhaps not the best judge of dangers, admittedly. He had once tried to hug a firecrab. But Tina? Tina was about as dangerous as Pickett (a bowtruckle who had suffered severe bullying by his peers and had since sought refuge in Newt’s pocket. Newt wasn’t sure how long dear Pickett would stay in his pocket. He was not, after all, a tree. But the bowtruckle had such a shy, sweet nature, that he had no problem with Pickett staying forever).

“You… you want her to be killed?” He clarified.

She narrowed her eyes, perhaps detecting his hesitation.

“Yes. You will accompany her to the forest tomorrow, correct?”

Newt nodded, unsure of how the Duchess even knew of this.

“You will kill her then, leaving her body in the river. A tragic incident. Little Tina went for a swim and a plimpy bite her.”

“Plimpies aren’t dangerous.” He said before thinking.

She frowned at him. Newt felt queasy.

“I’d like her heart, Mr. Scamander, in this box.”


	2. Harrowing Whistling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a little bit of gore in this chapter. It's not at all explicit but if you are uncomfortable with that sort of stuff then I'd recommend skipping it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya. Sorry for the late update, I've had a pretty bad week, been ill with a cold. Does anyone else get odd dreams when they're unwell? Last night I dreamed that I was a bat trying to eat a grape (with little success).

_Heart in a box. Heart in a box. Heart in a box._ His meeting with the Duchess left him both emotionally drained and dehydrated it seemed. It had also resulted in quite possibly the worst headache Newt had ever had the misfortune to experience, it felt like his skull was palpitating. His heart, too, was pulsing as though it empathetically felt the pain that Tina would, apparently, be feeling soon. There are certain places that hearts ought not to be, metaphorically and literally. Newt had been taught that the hard way when he’d given his heart to Leta. The agonising prospect of wrenching a heart out of someone’s body, however… well, pretty much summed up the pain of a broken heart.

“Hey! How was work?” Came Theseus’ voice as soon as Newt had opened the front door.

Newt glided to the sink, pouring himself a generous glass of water and gulping it down before bothering to respond.

“Awful.”

Theseus emerged immediately. He must have had a well-earned day off from work today, Newt supposed. Work had been trying lately and it was rare that Theseus would be home before ten. And yet, despite being mightily worn out, he still concerned himself far too much with Newt’s general wellbeing. Maybe it was out of guilt. Maybe it was because he was his brother. Maybe it’s Maybelline.

“You didn’t get fired again, did you?”

Newt slowly measured out some magical headache medicine. Theseus was irritatingly patient with him, however, eyeing his brother warily as though he expected him to explode. Would exploding be less painful than having your heart removed? Then again, the extraction of the heart could perhaps come after the murder. He felt sick. So, so sick.

“No.” He said, at last, managing to avoid throwing up.

“Well, that’s good isn’t it?” Theseus called to his shadow as Newt retreated to his room.

 _Not so fast_ , Theseus thought to himself, diving upstairs to follow his brother before he mysteriously vanished before. The muggles enjoyed a good disappearing act, would even pay good money to see it sometimes, but Theseus Scamander certainly did not. His concern for his brother had only risen after he left Hogwarts and failed spectacularly to secure any type of job. Recently, he'd started 'working on the grounds' of the Duchess, whatever that meant. That was another thing about Newt, he was terribly vague. Theseus doubted he'd have even told him that much had he not bugged him so much about his job quest.

Newt was so distracted with thinking over the events of the day that he didn’t notice his brother open the door as he stepped into the suitcase. He needed to check the condiment supplies and buy some more. The gnomes were incredibly talented at opening fridge doors, it seemed, and helping themselves to generous amounts of mayonnaise. The red caps, however, did not trust the sudden temperature change of dipping your hand into a fridge, so relied entirely on Newt for their ketchup. Similarly, the bowtruckles weren’t keen on leaving their tree to get woodlice. He supposed they were slightly indulged.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding.”

Newt spun around and cursed. Apparently, today he was doomed. Theseus was roaming around his potting shed, eyebrows practically on his forehead, before Newt could fire any objections back. He’d always been a nosy brother, terrified that Newt would one day go that one step too far and accidentally be killed by a beast too dangerous even for him.

“Theseus. I told you not to touch my things.”

Theseus wasn’t interested in this. Instead, he was staring into the ajar fridge. Newt mentally facepalmed at the look on Theseus’ face. Theseus was secretly a massive Sherlock Holmes fan (yes, Sherlock Holmes exists in almost all universes and can appeal to everyone, magical or not). Among his most prized possessions were hardcover copies of several of Arthur Conan Doyle’s books, signed by the legendary man himself. Newt had even found a notebook of scrawled fanfiction in which Theseus replaced Watson as the detective's crime solving buddy. His obsession with Sherlock Holmes was most probably a key reason in why Theseus wanted to become an auror. The look currently plastered on Theseus’ face was the very same as when he added up all the clues in a Sherlock book.

“That explains the grocery bag full of mayonnaise I found. What’ve you been up to?”

He stared suspiciously at Newt. Newt blinked back innocently.

“You really shouldn’t be down here.”

And, because luck was most certainly not on Newt’s side today, a red cap strolled in. The red cap took one look at Theseus and bolted. Newt couldn’t tell you what about Theseus had scared the red cap off. Theseus was looking remarkably cosy today with sleep tousled hair, a Hufflepuff hoodie and tracksuit bottoms. He was hardly what one would call intimidating.

“What’s that, Newton?” Theseus demanded.

Newt supposed that, perhaps, the connection red caps had with blood might meant they could tell from the bubbling of blood in the veins of people like Theseus when they’re about to turn into soft balls of anger.

“It’s nothing, trick of the light.” He mumbled back.

But Theseus had already whipped the door open and was prowling around in amazement. Pudsey, eyesight still deteriorating, ambled towards his sock-clad feet, mistaking them for mayonnaise.

“What is this? Have you… have you been storing dangerous creatures in your bloody suitcase?”

“They’re really not _that_ dangerous.” Newt protested.

Pudsey engulfed his feet with his mouth. Fortunately, he recognised the taste of feet before teeth were involved, else Theseus’ feet might have vanished. Regardless, as anyone who has had their feet licked by gnomes can verify, his jump back in shock was not an extraordinary reaction.

“Th-those ugly blighters over there are surrounded by blood!” He said, pointing a trembling arm to the red caps.

A red cap dipped his finger in the ketchup and stuck it in his mouth, menacingly.

“No, not quite… red caps do usually settle on blood… but I only had ketchup and they seem to prefer that anyway.”

The aforementioned red cap’s face fell. _Darn it Newt_ , he thought, he liked tricking humans. There’s something remarkably less sinister about being a fan of ketchup.

“For now. What happens when you run out of the bloody ketchup and they decide to squeeze you all over the earth?”

“Really now, Theseus, that’s quite ridiculous.”

And it was too. The red caps were fond of Newt. He promised them yesterday that he’d purchase some tomato seeds so they could produce some homemade ketchup. This idea, they all thought, was marvellous. They would make enough ketchup for the occupants of the suitcase, with some spare to sell to outside world. Two particularly clever red caps had already come up with a marketing idea for the product – _better than blood_ written on a red capped jam jar. They would pay Newt back for all his trouble.

“Where did you get them from anyway?” He scoffed.

Newt bustled around, feeding the bowtruckles, cheeks dark pink in shame.

“The Duchess’ grounds.” He said, quietly, dreading his brother’s response already.

“The- you mean to say you’ve been stealing Duchess Rosier’s red caps, gnomes and- what, stick insects?” Theseus said, arms flapping around like he was trying to take off and fly. Honestly, Newt wasn’t sure where he’d go if he did fly. Extendable charms do have their limits.

He distracted himself with Pickett. He offered the bowtruckle a hand down to the tree. Pickett refused and stuck his tongue out, rather rudely. Newt placed Pickett on the tree. Pickett sprung right back into Newt’s pocket.

“Bowtruckles. And, well, er, no, not exactly. I work as her huntsman so actually I’m doing her a favour, removing the creatures she doesn’t want and placing them elsewhere.”

Newt scowled at the bowtruckle. Pick your battles wisely, he thought to himself. Theseus today, Pickett another time. He’d miss his siblings with time and want to return. Newt simply was not the same as a tree. His skin, for one, was much softer and warmer than bark.

“Huntsman? You told me you work on her grounds.”

He turned back to face his brother, who looked a little hurt. Theseus had always made an effort with him. Newt rather resented how little he reciprocated or expressed gratitude for it.

“Technically speaking, yes, I do.” He said, softly, opening the door of the potting shed to Theseus.

“This is bonkers, you can’t just take all of her pests and keep them down here.”

Theseus collapsed on the only chair down there. Newt decided not to make a fuss. His brother probably needed a seat more than he did.

“… No, I know that now.”

“What happened, Newt?”

Newt switched on the kettle. They might have moved recently, but they were still British. British people always need tea in a moment of crisis.

“Nothing bad she just, well, she wants me to dispose of something a smidge less suitcase friendly.”

 _This is the way Newt dies_ , Theseus thought to himself. He didn’t particularly want ‘the creature wouldn’t get into his damn suitcase, so it ate Newt instead’ to be written on his brother’s gravestone but he supposed it was at least different.

“How many legs?” He asked in an authoritative tone that reminded Newt of just how powerful his brother truly was.

“Two.” He mumbled.

“Two? You mean this isn’t a spider the size of Hogwarts?” Theseus asked, oddly relieved by Newt’s answer.

Newt wasn’t quite sure where that train of thought came from. He would love to meet an acromantula, he’d heard rumours at school that they lived in the darkest part of the forbidden forest but never came across one in his time. He wondered if Theseus had perhaps seen one. There were few things that genuinely scared his brother, and spiders were not on the short-list, but he still wasn’t overly affectionate towards them.

“What- no. No, I think a spider I could, potentially, keep down here, provided I had enough flies. Why, do you know one?”

Theseus pointedly ignored that question. “Two legs. Two legs.” Then it hit him. “She doesn’t, I daresay, want you to dispose of a human?”

Newt poured their tea with impressively steady hands. Theseus stared at him, mouth open in horror.

“I think it probably breaches my contract to answer that.” He said and took a sip of tea just to look extra mysterious.

Unfortunately, you should never sip tea just after it’s brewed. Newt spat it out to avoid scouring his throat and performed a quick cooling charm on his cup.

“You can’t keep a human in a suitcase!”

“I know, I know, it’s out of budget as well, I’d have to get a whole bathroom fitted down here, not to mention food and clothes.” Newt complained.

He took a safer, concerned slurp of tea. The issue was that it was now stone cold. Newt was normally extremely gifted at charms but he supposed that the stress of everything meant his brain wasn’t on top form. He tapped his mug with his wand one last time.

“Humans aren’t pets.” Theseus announced.

Newt deflated at this comment, miserable at how humans had the arrogance to assume any and all other animals should be assigned as pets. “Neither are bowtruckles, red caps or gnomes.” He fired a deliberately chilling glance towards his brother, “What exactly would _you_ do?”

His dramatic tea slurp was, at long last, successful. Although the performance quality was perhaps weakened a trifle by his two previous attempts. Moreover, Theseus had the nerve to look away in thought! All in all, it was a wasted action.

“I wouldn’t apply to be Vinda Rosier’s huntsman in the first place.” Theseus said and, looking him in the eye, downed his cup in one, “You’ll be killed if you don’t do what she says.”

It was rare for Theseus to be so cynical about everything. He’d always been the more diplomatic, positive child out of the pair of them.

“Aren’t, er, aren’t you supposed to be the noble, magical policeman type?”

Strangely enough, this comment did not help resolve the tension. “For the last time, Newt, I’m head auror.” He spat out and passed Newt his mug.

Newt diligently set to washing them up immediately. He had a nasty habit of accidentally smashing any and all mugs in the vicinity and these were his only ones that had survived.

“Sorry, um, could you just arrest her?”

Theseus glared at his back, “Well, let’s see… there’s no legal evidence that she’s asked you to do this, she’d kill you, mum, dad, and me, oh and Leta too probably, just for good measure. I reckon she’s had a hand to play in a number of crimes. Frankly, I’d have better luck sorting those out first, then going in for an arrest.”

The thought of getting his entire family murdered filled Newt with dread. He’d somewhat grown apart from his parents during his time at Hogwarts, who had never quite understood his connection with animals. Yet they still had the decency to at least pretend to be interested in his life and offered him a place to call him until he could afford somewhere else. Leta, too, Newt had distanced himself from ever since a rather nasty trick was played by her in Hogwarts. He knew that he could never hate her, however, even if he wanted to. And, admittedly, Theseus could be irksome, though Newt knew his heart was in the right place… which is where all hearts should remain.

“Right.” Newt said quietly, and busied himself with drying the cups.

Theseus picked up on his tone and patted Newt on the shoulder.

“I really do wish I could help you. Anyway, what’s for dinner?”

“Mum’s making cottage pie.”

**

Newt wasted half the night tossing and turning in bed. Eventually, he got up and started pacing the length of his room, only for Theseus to charge in at half past two and demand he quieten down. And so, Newt had shrugged, climbed into his suitcase, and paced there instead. Apparently, his suitcase was no longer his own personal slice of solitude, however. The red caps had made it crystal clear that, unless they got an undisturbed red nap, they had absolutely no issue with using aggressive means to shut him up.

Newt woke up the next morning curled up in a gnome hole with Pudsey cuddled in his arms. He sighed as he recollected last night’s dream, a particularly troubling one in which he’d been playing Twister with Vinda Rosier. He shoved his head into his pillow, only to get a load of earth fall into his face. Right. Gnome hole. Tina. Checking the time on his pocket-watch, he realised he’d slept in for far too long – it was currently twenty to three! He swore loudly, thereby waking up Pudsey, who instinctively clamped his teeth down. Arm dripping with gnome saliva and blood, he rummaged through his wardrobe whilst simultaneously brushing his teeth, then hurried down Duchess Rosier’s estate.

It was ten past three by the time a panting Newt sprinted to the forest, Pickett clinging onto his lapel. Tina was swallowed up in a large heather grey coat, glancing around expectantly. She caught sight of Newt and frowned. Newt, meanwhile, felt like he’d been strapped to the back of a hippogriff. A hippogriff with no sense of direction whatsoever. A hippogriff with a craving for adventure who kept cartwheeling through the sky. In short, he was glad he’d only had one helping of cottage pie last night.

“You’re late.” Tina reproached him, obviously unimpressed with his timekeeping skills.

Newt dragged his fingers through his hair, trying to tame it to no avail. His curls had always been unruly, though they were not usually accompanied with the dirt of a gnome hole.

“Yes, well, I er, had to grab some equipment.” He said, lifting his suitcase importantly.

Tina rolled her eyes and started walking into the forest. Newt scurried to keep up with her. He suddenly wished that he’d thought to bring a bottle of water with him. It was a reasonably warm day and the forest, though shady, would be exhausting to trek through.

“Oh yes, Merlin forbid you forget the box to put my heart in.”

Newt stared at Tina in disbelief. For half a second, he willed for the Duchess to jump out of the foliage and shout ‘gotcha’. Then Newt realised that no one, not even Katherine Waterston, could act out an expression that mournful and hopeless. And yet, here was Tina, boldly pinging back branches to guide herself deeper and deeper into the forest.

“Wha-no, I, um, I’m not putting your heart anywhere.” He protested.

A rabbit bolted past them, startled by Newt’s outburst. Tina merely raised an eyebrow.

“Is that right?”

He felt an immense wave of gratitude for the twisting trees that engulfed them in shadow, leaving his flushed cheek colour free from judgement. It wasn’t fair that Tina could be so cool about all of this. Newt himself hardly ever worried, he didn’t see much use in it. Worrying only doubles the suffering, after all. But this particular situation had left him bloody terrified.

“Wha-why are you so calm?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t come near you with a ten-foot broomstick. It’s nothing personal, Vinda’s gifted with the imperius curse. You seem too dorky to actually kill me, though.”

Newt decided to take this as a compliment. He also amended his spacing, allowing her that ten-foot broomstick gap.

“But you’re still, er, that is to say, you want to go on a walk?”

Tina peered back at him, amused at this question, “Whatever, it’s safer than staying in that snake pit.”

He gasped in outrage, “That’s not fair, I-I actually happen to quite like snakes.”

It was true, he found them to be a most fascinating creature. Odd, isn’t it, how most people aren’t remotely scared of worms despite them being remarkably similar to a very small snake? He had a friend in the village, Jacob, who had given him a book entitled ‘snakes with hats’ for Christmas. It was a wonderful find that Newt would often skim through when he felt low. 

She spun to look at him, “Of course you do. Do you keep them in your suitcase, too?”

“No,” He said, murmuring a quiet “not yet” under his breath after it.

Tina’s gaze lingered on his suitcase for a moment before she turned again and continued walking. For a while, they kept going without making any comment, content with the silence. Newt actually had no idea where they were headed. He’d only ventured into the forest a couple of times and they’d never been long excursions. It was when they’d paused to drink out of a stream that Tina spoke again.

“What do you plan on doing with me, then? If my heart’s remaining unboxed.”

Newt had a sudden flashback to Hogwarts. His head of house would leave little boxes of heart shaped chocolates on each Hufflepuff student’s bed on Valentine’s Day. It was such a sweet, unexpected delight every year to find that box. Newt had been rather grouchy about Valentine’s Day since leaving Hogwarts but Theseus apparently cottoned onto the true reasoning behind this (‘so you’re not lonely, you just want chocolate?’) and kindly left a box of chocolates on his bed at home. He wondered, vaguely, if placing a chocolate heart in the box would do. Probably not.

“I um, haven’t quite figured that out yet.” He said instead.

Tina lifted her arms and flapped them, “Great.”

She stood up and resumed walking. Newt cupped his hands and gulped down one last mouthful of water before scurrying behind her. He didn’t especially want to lose her in a forest like this, he’d never find his way out again. They were so far in now that a part of him was convinced that the sky was always green.

“Why’s she so, um, dedicated to killing you anyway?” He asked her, partly to alert her that he was probably fifty broomsticks behind her now.

Tina waited, whether out of goodwill or to avoid straining her voice, Newt could not tell you.

“Oh, haven’t you heard? Step-mother has a jealousy issue.” She said once he was behind her.

Leta had a jealousy issue too. One that made him feel like little needles were protruding from his chest every time she saw him ‘fraternising with the enemies’. _We aren’t like them._ No, he’d thought wistfully, we’re not. And it made him tremble with fear, to sit in the Great Hall and eat, surrounded by so many people that were doubtlessly whispering and giggling about that strange child. Newt followed his philosophy and tried not to worry. Instead, he ate elsewhere. The house elves of Hogwarts were immeasurably kind, pinching his cheeks as they filled his arms with enough goodies to feed an army. The boy who slept in the bed next to him was actually rather sympathetic too. Once he’d noticed Newt’s absence at mealtimes, he made an effort to bring a slice of toast back, not realising that Newt was getting fed elsewhere. He even invited Newt to join the gobstones club. But _we’re not like them_ , Leta had hissed in his head, and he’d declined.

“She never bothered much with me after papa died. A year or so back I spied on a meeting between her and Grindelwald. I expect you’ve heard of him?” Newt nodded, he most certainly had. “Well, he expressed some interest in me.”

Newt bristled at this, “He- what?”

“You- ew! Not like that. For some unknown reason, he wanted to adopt me, said someone with blood this pure, fairest of them all, should be trained by the best.”

There had been rumours circulating that Grindelwald had a plot of some sort. The milkman spontaneously burst into a conspiracy theory that he was building an army against the muggles. In this world, muggles, wizards and witches lived amidst one another with little discord. There was, generally, mutual respect that was not based on blood or gender. A minority, however, had issue with this, Grindelwald included.

“That’s um?”

“I know. Vinda gets awful insecure, especially if he’s involved. Obviously, she couldn’t kill me off straight away, he’d know who it was. He really does know everything. At the time, she said I was too young for training, but her excuse is getting old so this was the solution.”

Newt didn’t really understand what the cause of this obsession was. Grindelwald generally kept to himself. He had a select group of followers who would flock after him pitifully, but every night he’d retire to a tower on the outskirts of the town alone. It was strange to think of him desperately trying to seek out another human’s company.

“I don’t understand, wh-why would Grindelwald want you?”

Tina aimed a tree branch in his direction, “Geez, thanks.”

“Oh, no, Tina, not like that.”

Tina didn’t reply for a while. The silence settled over them again. Well, that’s not necessarily true This part of the forest hardly allowed silence. The sound of piercing birdsongs made Newt clamp his hands to his ears. There were too many noises, too much to look and hear and smell.

“I’ve seen her kissing her mirror before, pretending it was him.” Tina said, unexpectedly.

Newt stumbled over a rogue tree root. A nearby blackbird glowered at him for disturbing its rest.

“That-um, that sounds traumatic?”

Tina nodded, “Had to share it with someone before I died.”

Newt groaned. There was no way he could bring himself to kill anything or anyone. The idea of murdering someone who had gone through the torture of watching the ice queen kiss a mirror was preposterous.

“I’m not going to kill you!”

“Well, what’s the plan then?” She asked, quite reasonably.

Newt hadn’t the foggiest. He wasn’t especially good at planning things and even when he tried, like today, it scarcely ever succeeded. He couldn’t kill her. But. He couldn’t not kill her. There wasn’t really any loop-hole here. He considered transfiguring his shoe into a heart but Vinda Rosier was an intelligent woman. She’d definitely check whatever he presented her with to ensure it was a heart. Still, it was his most accomplished idea yet… Another conundrum was where to put Tina. She was hardly safe in their town anymore and Newt didn’t know how he’d get her out of this bloody forest without being spotted.

“I, um, I could keep you in my suitcase.”

Newt couldn’t even see Tina’s face yet, somehow, he still knew that she looked unimpressed.

“Really! It’s got an extendable charm on it.”

He didn’t mean to brag but it really was impressive magic.

“I’m fully aware of how you’ve been keeping every animal in sight in that suitcase of yours. As… kind it is of you to offer, I’m going to have to decline. She has an enchantment on the forest borders, knows when a wizard or witch wanders past the borders alive, even if they’re in oversized bags.”

“That’s not ideal.”

It certainly did put a cat among the pixies.

At that precise moment, Tina tripped over a devilishly cunning tree root. At the same time, a large brown owl hooted and took off. If Newt had been superstitious, he’d probably have claimed that it was a sign they were doomed. Fortunately, he was not, so the bird did not concern him. Tina picked herself off the floor before he could offer any help and continued walking, wiping her cheek on her hand.

“Stop, I um, I have some stuff in here somewhere.” Newt said, already rummaging throw his pockets until his fingers held his first-aid kit.

There are numerous ways, of course, to magic injuries away, though in every guide it is recommended that you sterilise a cut properly. Newt once had an infected cut and never again would he inflict such pain on himself or others.

“Wh-no. That’s quite unnecessary.” She said as Newt opened the kit.

Newt glanced up at Tina warily. It was obvious that Tina Goldstein was not accustomed to someone else caring for her, though it was in Newt’s nature to care. Indeed, there was a small stream of blood coming out of her face now and Newt could not resist. He impulsively sprung forward with a clean handkerchief, pressing it to her face. Tina stepped back quickly, apparently allergic to handkerchiefs now.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Tina.”

“Like you could.” She said in what she clearly thought was a threatening tone. She stepped forwards cheeks warm and quickly wrenched the handkerchief from him to hold it there herself.

Newt didn’t have enough energy to feel offended. He himself struggled with physical contact as was constantly exasperated with Theseus’ insistence to hug. He located the disinfectant and a plaster and passed it to Tina.

“You always carry a first-aid kit with you?” She asked as she hissed at the sensation of the cool disinfectant on her skin.

Newt thought back to this morning, when he had to speedily slap on some disinfectant for the injuries acquired from Pudsey biting his arm. There was actually rarely a day gone by that Newt did not hurt himself in some way. Animals are intelligent, after all and they all face the common enemy of humanity, a most dangerous species. If Newt had been an animal, he’d jolly well bite him too.

“Er, well, it’s useful.” He summarised.

Tina shrugged and handed him back the disinfectant. She seemed pretty determined to get as far away from her step-mother’s estate as possible.

“What would you do if you were me?” He asked, carefully putting the first aid kit back in his pocket.

Tina squinted at him distractedly, “Huh? Oh. I’d just kill me.” She frowned at the floor and kicked an innocent rock. The inhabitants of said rock, three woodlice and a solitary ant, sped away to seek refuge elsewhere.

Maybe Tina, like him and Leta, wasn’t like the rest of them. And no wonder, given how many loved ones she’d lost already, how trapped she must feel with the Duchess. She must be exhausted. He didn’t think she wanted to die. No, he noticed how she’d brush her fingers against the branches of the trees, smile at the green canopied sky above them, nod at the magpies. Tina Goldstein didn’t want to die. But she wouldn’t tell him to tear apart someone else’s family to stay alive.

“You um, should probably work on your self-preservation skills.” He said instead of all this.

Newt discreetly picked the rock up and moved it closer to where the confused insects had been searching. Of course, Tina just had to be a lovely, selfless sort of person. If she’d been like the Duchess Newt would… well… no, he wouldn’t feel encouraged to kill her either way. He felt like kicking that rock, but the ant had just found it again and it’d be rather cruel to evict it from its home twice in one day.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She replied, softly.

They came to a patch out of the woods and Newt blinked at the sunlight, giving his vision funny splotches. Tina had paused and Newt wondered if this was where she meant to wind up. It was a strange clearing. He immediately sensed something wrong. The grass was a smidge too green. The daisies too round. The body too sleepy- wait a minute. Why was someone napping here? He moved closer.

“Mr. Scamander, what is that?”

Newt analysed the witch. She was a stocky lady in her late fifties adorned in what seemed to be a lot of white cotton. A knee-length white cotton dress, with white cotton trousers underneath and a white cotton apron on top just for good measure, and a white cotton handkerchief clasped in her pale hand. Newt didn’t have an issue with cotton, though he felt she may have overdone it slightly. He pointed her wand at her and deduced that she was, almost certainly, not having a nap. She was dead.

“That, Tina, that is a dead body.”

A snort sounded from beside him. Newt, typically, startled, not realising that she’d moved that close.

“No, really?” She retorted sarcastically, “Why is there a dead body in the forest?”

Newt frowned. It was rather unconventional. He reached down to shift her head slightly, ignoring Tina’s ‘yuck’. Patches of her coal black hair disintegrated as it was moved, shattering with a light sizzling noise. Tina covered her mouth and turned around. Newt didn’t want to go into detail on how exactly her face looked, it was absolutely hideous.

“Not sure. Blimey, looks like her head’s been cooked?”

He took the handkerchief out of the dead woman’s grasp and covered her face with it. What sort of a monster would do that to someone?

“Hey, Scamander, there’s a load of candy over here.”

Newt joined Tina, knees clicking as he stood. She was a few metres away, pointing at a mass of gingerbread leaning heavily against the trees. The smell was incredible. Newt had fond memories of crafting gingerbread houses with Theseus when they were younger. Admittedly, they would get bored before construction had properly started, each boy swayed by their rumbling tummies and the enticing smell of cinnamon, swiping their tongues against the icing lined walls and quietly nibbling until only crumbs remained. The temptation to gobble up all of this gingerbread was strong. Although the adult in Newt reminded him that it was perhaps a smidge suspicious to find so much gingerbread in the woods, particularly near a dead body. He wondered what purpose it could have served.

He circled the perimeter of the gingerbread, “I, yes, how perplexing. This gingerbread could almost have been a wall.”

“It was a house, I’m sure of it. Must have been enchanted… probably stopped working when she died?” Tina speculated, picking up a gumdrop.

She said it with the certainty of someone who had actually built a complete gingerbread house. Tina, with her glossy brown hair and classy outfits, was most definitely the sort to accomplish such an endeavour. Probably stayed up for more than two minutes as well.

“Yes, er, most strange.”

They both strolled back to the corpse.

A wry smile curled its way across Tina’s face, “Convenient, though, don’t’cha think?”

Newt took a second to realise exactly what she meant. It was a strange coincidence that the thing they needed most, a heart, was here, right in front of them. There had to be some sort of curse upon those who messed with dead bodies though and Newt was not participating in such a crime.

“Wh-no Tina. We can’t use her heart.” He protested, hands shaking.

“Why not? She won’t miss it.” Tina muttered, already cutting the chest open with a neat spell.

Newt considered that this would, at least, stop his family or Tina from being killed. He didn’t much believe that the Duchess could tell the difference between Tina’s heart and someone else’s. She did not, as far as he knew, have the ability to see through flesh.

“I-well, I suppose taking a dead person’s heart is better than murder.” He reasoned.

“That’s my boy! Here, open that box.” She said enthusiastically.

Newt fumbled around to find the box. A drop of blood fell on the grass by his shoes. He gulped and searched more frantically. Box located, he opened it and Tina nimbly moved it inside with a swish of her wand. Newt felt sick to the core to think that the box was filled. It did, however, lift somewhat of a burden from him. Tina apparently related only to the latter of Newt’s feelings.

“Great. Say, don’t red caps like blood?” She asked playfully, face lit up.

Who would have thought? Take someone else’s heart and she’s overjoyed. _Girls are strange creatures_ , Newt thought to himself as he shook his head adamantly.

“No, absolutely not. I- I’m trying to wane them off blood. They prefer ketchup.”

“Right.” She said, and laughed, spinning around with her hands in the air as though the body next to them was invisible.

Newt stared at her for a moment. He supposed that Tina had a right to be pleased by the outcome of today. After all, she wasn’t going to die and neither was Newt’s family. Newt still felt like throwing up, though he managed to avoid it.

He cleared his throat importantly, “Should we, er, move her body?”

Twenty minutes later, the body had been dropped in the lake, as the Duchess herself suggested. Fate, it seemed, was on their side today. He couldn’t help but fret that perhaps the Duchess left the body there on purpose, perhaps to test Newt. It was a risk that he couldn’t afford not to take but he told Tina his theory anyway.

She stroked her chin, “I don’t think so. She’d have put old sugar-fingers’ corpse in a more obvious place otherwise, we got here because I turned off the path too early.”

Newt blinked at this new information. He had assumed that Tina wasn’t able to make mistakes or get lost. Then again, it was typical that even when she did make a blunder, it turned out to be for the best.

“Right, well, um, we should find you a place to stay?” He said, motioning to the various trees she could build a tree house in.

Tina looked at him with mild concern, he supposed she’d probably rather camp on the ground then. “I’ll be fine. You should go. She’ll already be suspicious over how long you’ve taken.”

“I-yes. That’s very true.” He said, worrying his lip between his teeth.

Then, quite suddenly, he was wrapped up in a warm embrace, Tina’s arms loosely circling his waist. Newt peered down at her in surprise and tried to shift his arms into a more welcoming position. Everything about her felt like home. She smelt like freshly washed clothes. It prompted memories of running through the garden with his arms spread like an aeroplane, his mother laughing at his imaginative nature as she pegged laundry on the clothes line. Her hug ended nearly as suddenly as it began.

“Thank you for all your help.” She said softly.

He shuffled awkwardly back a few steps, never sure how to accept a compliment in the correct way. Newt couldn’t help but feel as though she’d really helped herself. All he’d done was escort her through the forest, after all.

“Oh, er, no problem. I’ll see you around?”

Tina hesitated, “You shouldn’t return, it’d be too risky.”

This was true. Newt supposed it would be suspicious if he kept coming back to the Duchess’ forest. Still, he thought to himself, they would meet again one day, he’d make sure of that.

He nodded curtly, “Quite. Take care.”

“Goodbye, Newt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot is getting a trifle more complicated and weird so um yeah, let me know if any of this made sense at all? Thank you so so much for reading - and thank you to the people who have left kudos and comments, it means the world to me.


	3. Suspicious Stomping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, hope you're having a fantastic day. It's a bit of a here-and-there, in between, chapter but I hope you like it anyway.

As soon as Vinda Rosier tripped into their lives, curling her neck just-so and claiming to be lost, Tina should have known they were doomed. In days, Papa’s eyes, usually twinkling with inquisitiveness, had dulled. He pandered after the Duchess’ every whim without any consideration or thought for himself, or even Tina. It was a relationship defined by the action of taking. The house changed with her. Dark, heavy curtains shielded the house from the light that used to grace their home. Family photos were replaced with extravagant portraits of Vinda dressed head to toe in beautiful yet costly garments. Papa’s ashen face and obsession to please had tainted every romantic vision she had formed of love. How could anything remotely like that be desirable? To lose oneself in a selfish compulsion to gain approval? In retrospect, Tina supposed that he must have been drugged with a high dosage of love potion. His eyes never lit up for Vinda, his words were cold and robotic, he was like a reserved servant bound to obey her. After their marriage, the Duchess seemed bored of her little toy, and maybe that’s why he changed again. Tina had never quite understood the term ‘resigned smile’ before that month. His eyes weren’t dulled anymore, and Tina almost hoped that he was, perhaps, back to his old self. He was not. Tears gathered threateningly in his eyes, ready to spill, and apologies bristled on his lips but neither fell. Perhaps Tina should have directly asked him, demanded that he talk to her, tell her what happened. But she did not, and she regretted that more and more every day. Instead, she watched him wilt, witnessed herself as he merely nodded when Vinda suggest he go out on that fateful day. He knew what would happen. Tina did too, though she didn’t properly acknowledge it when he held her close and breathed a final ‘I love you’ into her ear, stroking her hair. She didn’t know if she could forgive him for that.

The way Tina saw it, giving in to Vinda Rosier would be letting her win. It was easy to underestimate the pretty-faced daughter. Tina felt stubbornly adamant that she would live, flourish, just to spite the wicked lady who had destroyed the last of her family. One day, when she had enough power, she would return and appreciate the look of shock that would stretch across the Duchess’ face. Moreover, she would somehow make Vinda pay for the damage she had done, send her to Azkaban for her crimes.

She kept telling herself that as she leant against the gingerbread in the clearing.

The idea of living in a house of gingerbread was all very well, especially if it was to spite Vinda, but the fact someone had already died there did dampen her spirits. And then there was the slight issue of magic. Vinda had snapped Tina’s wand ‘by accident’ a couple of days ago, promising in an apologetic tone that she’d replace it shortly. Obviously, Tina could hardly tell Newt about this, she barely knew the boy.

Newt Scamander puzzled her. Tina had known from the moment she saw him gracefully falling face-first onto a mayonnaise covered piece of lettuce that he was different. Tina still did not completely understand why he would dress his salad this way. She had no time for salad dressings. She retreated to investigate further shortly after his performance, only to see the lettuce gone and the gnomes dropping into his suitcase. The Duchess had hired a series of huntsmen in the past. Few lasted more than a day. The most traumatic instance was when one tried to shoot the gnomes with a no-maj’s gun. His horrible trick had only resulted in blood stains on the stones and infuriated gnomes, who were so fuelled with rage that, when they were not pelting strawberries at the humans, bred in spite of these murderous humans, building a gnome army. So yes, Newt was admittedly different, though Tina did not quite trust him enough to admit not having a wand.

She stretched her arms and broke off a sizeable chunk of gingerbread. It would supply her with some food, at least, even if it did not serve as adequate accommodation. She looked into the forest, which seemed cooler and less friendly with the creeping presence of evening. A part of her wanted to run wildly, channel her inner Lady Macbeth. Today had been… heavy. Tina had already witnessed Papa lose his mind and, for some unfathomable reason, she did not want to see the same thing happen to Newt. The toll of removing another witch’s heart and disposing of her body like some cold-blooded killer was not light. Tina’s head was throbbing with guilt and confusion. There was also that slight sense of paranoia. Somewhere in this forest could be the true murderer of that witch, watching her, waiting for her, ready to-

A loud crackling noise sounded near her. Tina sucked in a breath and shrunk herself into the tree trunk, closing her eyes and counted. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. She opened her eyes. The darkness was growing and she couldn’t see much around her but there didn’t seem to be anything nearby. She contemplated what to do and wished, suddenly, that she’d stayed at the gingerbread house. At least there she could have seen any predators before they approached. Here, she was vulnerable and unarmed. Her left foot twitched and she carefully placed it on the floor, shying away from the tree. The leaves quietly crunched beneath her. She moved her other foot forward, chest tight, shoulders hunched. The leaves responded with another, slightly louder crunch.

The most hideous cawing noise came out of nowhere and Tina leapt back in fright but it was too late. A great pair of ebony wings hurtled towards her - before slanting off to the right and missing her completely. _It was only a crow,_ she muttered to herself, _a crow, Porpentina, a crow_. She breathed in and out a few times and set off again, this time faking some confidence. The trees poked at her, gripping onto her clothing as though they were enchanted with the souls of beggars, bony fingers groping at her. She wrenched herself out of their hold, wincing at the occasional tears caused by such an action. The glow of daylight soon vanished and it was both cold and dark. The wind sighed in her ears. She drew her coat close around her, arms stretched slightly ahead to feel any foreboding tree.

What she would do to have Newt with her right now, stumbling over his words in an endearing way, clumsily telling her that no, he would not hurt her. Newt. Newt. Newt. He had an accent and dialect different from Tina’s, suggesting that he perhaps went to Hogwarts. The town here was large, practically a world in itself, and the way someone spoke said a lot about their lives. Perhaps, if she ever did meet him again, she would talk to him about that, compare Ilvermorny to Hogwarts. She imagined he was here now, spoke to herself quietly, explained how she loved transfiguration class because it was interesting how one could magic a match into a needle. And isn’t that an ironic transfiguration? Because a match can make fire and a needle can sew cloths into dresses? Aren’t the no-maj clever?

But Newt Scamander was not here and when she tripped over a tree root, invisible in the darkness, no hand hovered awkwardly to help her up. Instead, nettles stung her wrists painfully as she foolishly dug her hands down. It was at this point that Tina officially lost it. She launched herself up and sprinted, throwing one foot in front of the other hopelessly, trying to find an escape from the trees. It seemed impossible to get away, she felt trapped, horrendously trapped, in the Duchess’ trap. And, just when she was losing her breath and considering giving up, the trees opened into a little clearing.

Tina thought at first that she was hallucinating, or perhaps that she had somehow managed to circle back to the gingerbread house. But if it was then someone must have swept away the sweets… and replaced it with a real cottage. It was a quirky sort of building, the sort that might have featured in a technicolour, 1937 film, with beams in unexpected places and wooden shutters by the windows. Had it been day, Tina might have noticed that the thatch was so light it must have been replaced recently. In fact, it was eight at night and an exhausted Tina couldn’t stop herself from wandering towards the teal blue door and inviting herself inside. Everything felt far too small, from the doorway to the little chairs around the table.

“No one could possibly live here,” Tina reasoned with herself as she took in just how much dust blanketed the stove.

She opened the fridge and, to her absolute delight, found a frozen pizza. Again, this could have hinted to her that the occupants of the house were still around, however Tina reminded herself just how long frozen food lasted. Besides which, there weren’t any fresh vegetables or milk in the fridge. She heated the pizza up, yawning and grabbed a cloth to clean a plate for herself. Whoever had previously lived here apparently did not understand how to maintain a tidy home. By the time the pizza was done, she’d washed only a small pile of the dishes on the side and had swept away five cobwebs. It was truly a disgusting way to keep a home. She tucked into her pizza, wolfing it down speedily.

She pondered what Newt would be doing right now, whether he had got away with their trickery. It made her too tired to think about and she went upstairs, steps creaking under her weight to her delight, _no one could possibly live in a house in such disrepair!_

The upstairs seemed to be one large bedroom comprising of seven tiny beds that couldn’t possibly fit real people in them. It was empty. She shrugged, guessing that maybe this used to be a strange, forest orphanage, and drew three of the beds together to form one large bed and collapsed down, allowing herself drift to sleep.

**

Newt’s evening had been considerably less eventful. His mother had scolded him severely once for getting lost and returning home for tea late. Somewhere amidst her angry words was, however, the priceless mention of a remarkably useful spell that conjures orbs to lead one home. Newt felt pretty swanky, confidently striding through the forest after the floating lights, and had almost forgotten why he was there in the first place when the trees gave out and, quite suddenly, he was out of the woods. It was a relief to not be surrounded by trees for the first time in a while. At one point in his walk, Newt was almost convinced he heard a shriek and only hesitated in bolting back to Tina when he realised the noise came from a small owl. The Duchess lifted a hand at him, apparently having waited on the outskirts for his return. She was, appropriately, dressed like a funeral was about to commence, head to toe in black. Her hat intrigued Newt considerably, sweeping past her right eye elegantly. It reminded him slightly of a ship that had crashed into an iceberg.

“You have the heart?” She asked eagerly as soon as she caught sight of his sweaty, tousled hair and dishevelled appearance. Yes, Newt probably did look crazy enough to have done something like that.

Newt gawked at her for a moment before remembering himself and retrieving the box. He gulped as he passed it to her, her cold hands snatching it greedily. This was the moment of truth. If Duchess Rosier had even an inkling that the heart did not belong to Tina, everything would go wrong. Newt crossed his fingers behind his back. He did not have to wait for long. The Duchess opened the box hungrily and a rare smile graced her face. She licked her lips and stripped off her gloves, letting them fall to the ground like withered petals. For a second, Newt worried that she might lurch forward and strangle him but instead she grasped the heart with her bare hand. The box joined the glove on the floor shortly, clattering ungracefully as she secured both hands around it and squeezed the muscle between her hands as though it was a stress ball. She seemed to cancel out her surroundings entirely, transfixed, relishing in how the heart felt and what it did if she touched it just there… Newt squirmed in discomfort. She was mad. Deranged even. The Duchess paused in her antics and looked thoughtful for a moment before registering that Newt was, indeed, still here. Vinda had quite forgotten that the lad was present, though the flutter of calm that came from holding the heart meant she was unperturbed by him.

“You’ve done well, Mr. Scamander.” She announced, hands caressing one of the veins gently, “The girl was dangerous.”

He looked down bashfully, unsure of what to say.

The Duchess did not comment on this, scarcely noticing his uneasiness. She was, again, distracted by the heart. To think that this had been pumping blood through the body of Tina Goldstein… Fuelled by a sudden rush of hatred, she crushed the heart between her hands, muttering something low beneath her breath. Newt watched in horror as blood oozed between her fingers. He followed it as it fell onto the grass, painting red dashes against the green. He looked up to see her hands empty save for a pile of ashes, which were soon swallowed by the wind. Newt inhaled sharply. The Duchess didn’t seem to analyse his distress however, and turned to walk back to her house. Newt frowned. Was he expected to follow? Could he go home? Frankly, he wanted to throw up right now. Then shower. Then eat some leftover cottage pie. Theseus, he knew, would be worried sick about him.

“I didn’t think you had it in you.” The Duchess said, arms swinging leisurely, “Take a couple of days off.”

Newt trailed after her and made a little humming noise, not trusting himself to open his mouth. He had never seen the Duchess so happy. There was a spring in her step, Newt noticed, even her shadow seemed somehow cheerier. The two days off were uncharacteristically decent, he appreciated that. He appreciated the hefty load of money that she dropped into his bank account that evening as well. He wanted to appreciate everything that had happened, because the twist and turn of events had, he supposed, been kind to him. But he wasn’t. He couldn’t stop thinking of Tina. What did she do when he left? Would she be alright? Should he visit her regardless of what she said? He wanted to, he really did, which was strange because Newt never really wanted to see anyone human all that much. He voiced it to Theseus the following evening when they were looking at the stars.

“You don’t think you might like her, do you?” He said, bumping their shoulders together.

Theseus had been even more cheery since Newt had returned home alive. Upon entrance, he collided into Newt and forced him into a hug that left Newt sobbing. Their parents had been most puzzled at this display of affection between the two of them. His mother had delicately asked whether Pickett was quite alright at dinner, to which Pickett had sprinted across the table to steal a tomato off her plate. Bemused, she had concluded that it was Newt’s lack of appetite the night before that had resulted in such a friendly outburst earlier. Even so, Newt thought, Theseus was making a big show and dance about him caring for Tina.

Newt blinked at him, “I like a lot of people, Theseus.”

“Not,” Theseus huffed, “Not like that… like how your puffskein’s liked each other.”

Newt took a moment to fully absorb what his brother had said. Oh gosh. He hadn’t really considered well… that. He blushed and turned slightly to avoid looking at Theseus.

“Oh, I don’t think so, that’s not to say that she isn’t beautiful, not to mention witty and kind and everything else but…” He trailed off.

“But?”

But it felt inappropriate, somehow, to imagine Tina as someone more than a friend. It felt inappropriate to think of anyone that way after Leta.

She had enchanted him in the cruellest of ways. He’d always shut himself away from the world, too absorbed in his creatures, but when Leta bounded in, brimming with interest for the dear raven he was nursing, he thought that someone perhaps understood. And he’d fallen in love, slowly, uncontrollably, so, so, horrifically in love. He loved her stupid long hair and how it would tickle his neck when they hugged, he loved her toothy smile and the satisfaction she’d get out of her daft tricks. Nothing was dull with Leta around, she couldn't resist causing chaos wherever she went. Everything about her was intense, from her dark eyes to her mischievous antics around the castle – Leta fascinated Newt. When they’d released that raven to the world, she’d reached for his hand, grinning as it soared above them. He’d foolishly let himself believe that it meant something, heart flying alongside the raven. It hurt, the day he realised that she didn’t quite respect animals in the same as him, letting the Jarvey loose and endangering a fellow student. It was such a nasty prank and he felt then that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t really know her at all. It hurt, the day Theseus gushed to him about how Leta Lestrange had grown close to him and _would it be weird for me to date your friend_. What hurt the most, however, was her cold disregard of Newt’s miserable state of mind. She never even bothered to ask how he was doing, too wrapped up with Theseus. So Newt had told himself that never, never again would he hurt himself that way again.

“I don’t do relationships.” He mumbled, ducking his head down to examine a line of ants charging across the roof towards Theseus’ piece of toast. He swiftly moved Theseus’ toast to a safer position.

Theseus, however, didn’t seem overly concerned for his toast, “You deserve some happiness too. You do know that, right?”

Newt rolled over and looked at the sky again. They came out here loads when they were kids, fascinated with the night sky and the stories it held. Back then they didn’t recognise constellations, no, that was a time before Hogwarts. They’d inevitably drift up here every night, both boys struggling with sleep at that age, and point to the stars at random, supplying each with a different identity and backstory every night. It wasn’t a bad life, really.

“I am happy. I don’t need a girlfriend for that.”

“What’s this I hear about not having a girlfriend?”

Newt startled, not having noticed that Leta had appeared. He recognised the half-smile on her face, doubtless that she’d apparated in the hope of catching the tail of their conversation. It was ‘endearingly spontaneous’ according to Theseus, how she would randomly turn up, uninvited, to surprise him. Newt moved instinctively to a standing position.

“Nothing,” He said hastily, readying himself to leave before any interrogations took place.

Apparently, Theseus had given her a warning look because Leta’s tone changed to something soft, soft yet condescending.

“Oh, come on Newt. You never met a monster you couldn’t love, surely there must be someone out there for you?”

“I have to go.” He muttered back, trying his best to not let his voice crack and apparated into his room, utterly mortified. Newt’s nightmares that night did not fixate on Leta’s words. No, instead they explored the various ways Tina could be in trouble.

**

As it happened, Newt had a right to be worried. There was quite a commotion outside the cottage.

Despite appearing derelict, the house in fact belonged to seven dwarfs. The dwarfs had constructed the building long, long ago, before anyone thought to place ownership on land. Life for a dwarf was difficult when they had fled their mountainous home and stumbled upon the forest. Dwarfs have a keen nose for diamonds and Sneezy (names, too, in this time were scarcely heard of – why would one need to place ownership on oneself in that way, and what did Emma or Tony even mean? – instead, a defining characteristic was often called in reference to someone) sniffed out a decent supply. Diamonds are, of course, limited, and they ran out of those after a century or so of mining. The dwarfs, however, were by this point masterful at geology and devoted themselves to the study of alchemy, thereby creating themselves a philosopher’s stone. The stone not only ensured that they exceeded even dwarf life expectancy but also meant they were abundant in gold and silver, which they used for a jewellery line. They had some difficulty with said stone when a mysterious stranger stole it in his aid to transform several rooms of straw into gold. Fortunately, Bashful had the modesty to hide a considerable amount of the elixir in a pigeon nest, and they had piles of silver and gold, so they weren’t overly concerned.

What did concern them, however, was the fact that the kitchen light had been left on.

“Wait a second fellas. The lit’s light – uh, the light’s lit!” Announced the dwarf known as Doc. He was, as the oldest dwarf and only one to wear glasses, their self-appointed leader.

“Jiminy crickets. The door is open, the chimney’s smokin’, something’s in there.” The others chorused. This was not, strictly speaking, true. The chimney had not been ‘smokin’’ for quite some time and a bit of pizza certainly would not have caused this. The door, also, was not open. Tina at least had manners enough for that. It was perhaps habit, perhaps the work of a Disney-hungry writer too in love with the original script, that meant they said this at all.

“There’s a storm brewin’, lads. An’ we all bes’ be ready for it when it comes.” Grumpy foretold mysteriously, crossing his arms and scowling.

“Goly,” Said Happy, amber eyes sparkling, “that sounds like something a half-giant might say.”

Grumpy glared at him from under his lavender eyelids, Happy really did come up with the strangest theories sometimes. Doc coughed importantly and straightened his tunic. He was awfully proud of his tunic, his mother made it for him when he was younger and, since growing a rather portly belly, he had amended it himself with patches of autumn coloured fabrics to better support his figure.

“Better not sneak if we want to speak… that is to say, better not speak if we want to sneak.” He told the others, who nodded, put their fingers to their lips and ‘shh’-ed dramatically. All except one, that is. Dopey, the only un-bearded dwarf didn’t quite get the memo so had to ‘shh’ a moment or so too late.

The dwarfs crept in their cottage in single-file, shoes creaking loudly against their efforts to sneak. Dwarf feet were an unusual size that few shoemakers, elf or otherwise, accommodated. Indeed, Grumpy considered, the horror that was the dwarf shoe noise was probably a prime reason why his distant cousins had hired Bilbo, a weedy little hobbit, to burgle for them those many eons ago. Grumpy had no time for burgling, which was perhaps why it irked him so much that someone had dared to break into their cottage. Then again, it wasn’t unusual for Grumpy to be disgruntled about something or other, he found great pleasure in complaining. Upon entrance, he knew something was wrong and wandered to the place he did the most thinking: his chair.

“The dus’ is gone. I don’t like red.” He howled.

It was true, Grumpy liked to rant about his crimson tunic for a good hour every day. Happy had offered to trade but Grumpy had grunted. Happy didn’t understand. Red was not the problem. No, colour was. He didn’t like colour, seeping the joy out of life, giving him headaches, making him think and smile and all those other terrible things.

“Gosh, our cobwebs are missin’.” Bashful said, hollowly.

He’d befriended the spiders when they first built the house, offering them refuge in their house. They frequently left dishes out for far too long, meaning they had an ample supply of flies. He hoped the spiders would be alright, wherever they were in the world.

Grumpy patted his brother on the back, “Dirty work.”

Sneezy, characteristically, sneezed.

“’m allergic to cleanliness.”

The others looked at him sympathetically. He picked up his mug and was about to brew himself a nice of lemon and honey tea, which usually soothed his throat if he’d suffered a long day of sneezing, only to jump in shock.

“The sugar… it’s gone.”

Doc himself strut over to see to this, glasses slipping to the bottom of his nose as he inspected the cup. Indeed, he couldn’t see a spec of sugar in that cup. Sneezy had, over the years, had so many cups of tea that a mound of it had solidified, rather usefully, on the bottom. Now, however, now the mug was as clean, as sparse, as the day he’d got it. All those years pouring sugar had been wasted.

“Snot just them that’s gone. Someone stole our dishes.” Said Bashful, cheeks pinkening.

Happy, who had been staring into a cupboard during this entire commotion, spoke up. “They ain’t stole. They’re hidden in here, must’ve been scared.”

Happy had never known dishes to scuttle into cupboards. He and his brothers treated theirs kindly, never forcing them into small spaces or leaving them naked and exposed. The… monster… that had entered their cottage, cleared away the spider, removed Sneezy’s sugar, terrified the dishes, well, Happy didn’t know quite what to think of it. He looked around at his brothers, all five of them, and tried to give them a reassuring smile, ever the ray of sunshine. Wait. Five? Doc? Check. Grumpy? Check. Sneezy? Check. Bashful? Check. Dopey? Check (though why Dopey was trying to get himself in a cupboard, he was unsure). That only left… Sleepy.

Where was Sleepy?

**

Tina, meanwhile, was midway through a perfectly nice, dreamless sleep when she was rudely awakened. Something was shrieking. She clasped the pillow to her head and turned over, irritated at the audacity of her alarm clock. The noise only got more piercing and, regrettably, Tina realised that it was not her alarm that had been making a racket. No, instead it was a tiny, tiny man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Promise that Newt and Tina will be together soon (ish). Thanks for reading, let me know what you think! Also if anyone could recommend some fanfics (especially if it's in the Newt/Tina relationship category) then I'd be super grateful.


	4. Operatic Warbling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> get ready for some dwarf drama

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To quote James Acaster on Bake Off:  
> Started making it. Had a breakdown. Bon appetite.

Sleepy sometimes struggled to decipher whether or not he was dreaming. He was by far the idlest dwarf to ever exist, or at least that’s what his brothers told him. If Sleepy was not dreaming with his eyes shut, he was doing it with his eyes wide open. Day dreaming. Or dreaming the day away, according to Grumpy. Although everything was a waste of time in Grumpy’s opinion so Sleepy tried his best not to pay attention. There is, actually, quite a big difference between bog standard sleeping and dreaming. Well, that’s not strictly speaking true – everyone dreams when they sleep, the brain and the body aren’t the best at communicating what’s going on and you can’t help but dream, though it’s rare that anyone will dream for the entire night. For quite some time Sleepy had encountered dreams in another way, a way quite different to you and I.

You see, Sleepy was not just a dwarf, oh no. Sleepy was a prince. Or, I suppose, a princess?

(Dwarfs, generally speaking, do not care for gender. That is why any and all dwarf you may see in fiction or otherwise are, generally, referred to by what humans may call ‘male’ pronouns. The physical difference between male and female dwarfs is… not really visible unless clothes are removed. Both are of shorter heights, both are capable of growing beards [the exception for this is Dopey], both easily build a rounded tummy. Dwarfs are not old-fashioned enough to assign skirts and trousers to one another dependent on their genitals.)

Sleepy was once a very important dwarf indeed, part of the royal family. After an incident with a spinning wheel, he fell into the deepest and most maddening sleep. It was like cascading into Wonderland, daft and confusing and utterly nonsensical. For a couple of hours, he dreamed. Then it stopped. There were no dreams from then on. Not exactly. Just light that would drift occasionally in. It went on for a good long while before some stuck-up prince had the audacity to kiss him. There is nothing worse than being snogged in your sleep. Since then, Sleepy’s brain never quite forgave him for switching off for a few hours (or weeks). It punished him by never allowing a dream-less moment of sleep, which meant that he regularly found himself so exhausted that he’d succumb into deep (day)dreams at random points. That is why Sleepy is always dreaming and never actually sleeping, despite what his brothers may think. You may ask why Sleepy had not requested that he be known as Dreamy. Aside from it sounding like the name of a pink, glitter maned unicorn, he thought it best not to tell his brothers what woke him up those many years ago. The prince would have been obliterated.

And so, when Sleepy saw the girl, sprawled across the bed, fast asleep, his scream was quite justifiable. Firstly, Sleepy was unsure whether this was a particularly vivid daydream or reality. Secondly, he wanted to lie down for a moment and she was on _his_ bed, dammit. Thirdly, he didn’t especially want any princes to burst in and attack her lips. Sleepy often panicked when he saw people asleep. Fortunately, he was the first to bed and the last to wake so it was rare that he witnessed it.

The girl moved around for a moment, shoving a pillow on her head and groaning. Sleepy resumed his scream. He was hardly screaming out of fear anymore, no, the moment the girl moved he knew that her sleep was not enchanted. Nor was it out of discomfort – he actually rather enjoyed sleeping in Doc’s bed, just to wind him up. No, he kept screaming because he couldn’t remember how to stop. Ordinarily, his mouth would only ever move so wide when he had to yawn. This was unfamiliar territory and he wasn’t entirely sure that he wasn’t dreaming after all.

The pillow came flying for his face. He promptly remembered how to stop screaming, shutting his mouth before it could be stuffed with pillow. As the pillow fell to the floor, he gawked at the girl. No, his dreams were never quite as strange as this. There was a mass of brown stuff that, he yawned, made him think of hot chocolate and soft winter naps. Her face was pale and the lines under her eyes so dark that Sleepy almost felt that she deserved a sleepless night even more than he did. Dreams aren’t always pleasant and he knew the face of someone who had slept through a nightmare. He also recognised the cranky glare that was being cast at him. It is never a smart idea to wake someone from their nap, especially after they’ve had a nightmare. Sleepy bolted down the stairs.

His brothers were awaiting him downstairs. Sleepy, unlike Doc and Grumpy, was never one to make announcements. If there was a Disney film made about him, he'd probably only have a measly six lines in it. He had never been stared at with such intensity by all six brothers at once.

“What is it? Did it have horns?” Bashful asked, moving his hands up to gesture as if horns were some abstract concept out here, and then wringing his hands anxiously.

Sleepy thought back on the creature in the bed. It certainly had something on its head. Dwarfs never removed their hats. Hats were a symbol of pride and virtue. This thing, however, had tufts of that brown stuff pointing in all direction. It was not hair, for hair, he knew for a fact, only came in varying shades of grey and white. He nodded.

“How big is it?” Happy enquired.

“Takes up three,” he yawned, “Three beds.”

This set his brothers into a state of absolute panic. Sneezy jumped on the kitchen table and started tap-dancing out of pure nervousness. He often did that when he got stressed out. He said it was 'the only way the sneezes wouldn’t catch up on his toes'.

“Is it a dragon?” Doc said.

Sleepy felt a flutter of confusion. It had been a long time since he’d seen a dragon. Most dragons, as far as he could recall, had considerably more scales than that thing. He shook his head.

“That’s bad, that is.” Grumpy said, “Let’s attack.”

And, with that, he picked up a teacup.

“I dunno if she’ll fit in there.” Sleepy pointed out. They had a spider that often ventured from its web onto the sink which, for obvious reasons, was not a particularly clever place to reside and would have to be moved using said teacup.

Grumpy rolled his eyes moodily and joined Sneezy on the table. He shoved the teacup against Sneezy’s mouth to swallow any impending noises. The other dwarves nodded at this wise move. It was better to be sly and quiet, there was no room for sneezes or indeed yawns. Sleepy subtly picked up a teacup of his own for that very purpose. The other dwarfs armed themselves with stale bread and up the stairs they crept, Doc and Grumpy leading the way.

“Jiminy Crickets,” Doc muttered under his breath.

Grumpy glared at his brother sympathetically.

Tina had deduced that the noisy dwarf was merely a figment of her imagination and drifted back to sleep. It had been a long and bizarre day, no doubt her brain had added one and two and decided dwarfs were the answer. She had heard the stomping tap dance of Sneezy but, having grown up in an old house, thought it was probably the pipes and hid herself under the covers.

“Let’s kill it before it wakes.”

Doc lifted an arm, ready to fire the stale bread at their intruder, before he remembered something very important. If you get crumbs in bed, you have to do the laundry. It had been three years since they last washed the sheets. In that instance, Sneezy had bought a gigantic cream pie to bed and, promptly, sneezed most of the cream over the covers.

Doc lowered his arm and dropped the bread and pounced on the bed. He’d always been a courageous dwarf and if anything was to prove that it was this. The thing under the covers squirmed, frantically moving its arms about.

Grumpy didn’t especially want Doc to die. He was the most infuriating dwarf he’d ever had the misfortune of meeting but he was also their leader. Grumpy didn’t want to lead. He was more a ‘complain about leadership’ sort of guy. It was for this reason that he leapt onto the bed too.

“Which end do we kill?” Said Happy.

A muffled “what the hell” came from seemingly nowhere. All dwarfs jumped at this, immediately assuming it was a ghost. Dwarfs are notoriously bitter about the action of dying. If there was a ghost in here, they hoped it would not be one of their ancestors, ready to whine about how annoying it was that they’d died somehow or other. It would have been strange for a ghost to emerge now, after having lived here for so many years without the slightest sign of the supernatural, but dwarfs do have a habit of sulking and it wasn’t entirely implausible that a dwarf ghost could have sulked for many, many years.

Amidst this minor panic, Grumpy and Doc slipped off the bed. Tina took this opportunity to free herself from the covers and take in her attackers. It took a moment for the dwarfs to register Tina’s presence again.

“Why- it’s a human!” Exclaimed Happy gleefully.

Yes, Happy could identify a human. He’d actually met them several times. Happy was in charge of selling the jewellery the dwarfs made every day to the humans. A blonde-haired girl named Emma would meet Happy once a month on the field south of the forest. She was frightfully dramatic, always cursing about how the Henry or Regina in her world was driving her crazy. The south of the forest was a portal to several worlds. Indeed, Tony Stark was another human (or Happy thought he was, it was difficult to tell sometimes) that Happy had met down there, though he was considerably less interested in their jewellery, reluctantly buying two friendship bracelets, one for each wrist. Happy was the only one to ever go down there to trade, the other dwarfs were terrified of humans.

The other dwarfs looked astonished at Happy’s statement. They’d asked all about the humans, of course, but Happy had such a positive outlook on everything that his vague ‘oh, they have nice skin’ and ‘they wear hats too… sometimes’ comments had hardly prepared them for such a shock.

“It’s beautiful,” said Bashful, “Like an angel.”

Tina observed the red-cheeked dwarf warily. She had, unfortunately, been hit on her before. Her personal favourite was when a red-cheeked first year boy had approached her and squeaked out ‘someone like you is just my cup of Porpe-TEA-na’ at her, then bolted to the toilets before she could even answer.

“Angel?! Hah, it’s a human, humans are infested with nasty nargles.” Grumpy declared, folding his arms. The other dwarfs took a step back, though none of them knew what nargles were. Sneezy even dropped his teacup in terror.

“Oh dear,” Said Tina meekly.

“Now, now. They’re not all bad. Nice to meet you, girl.” Happy said, and curtseyed so low that his mustard yellow hat brushed the floor.

Tina didn’t quite know what the social etiquette was with dwarfs. She’d never encountered them before and had rather assumed that they’d all died out when the giants stepped in.

“How do you do?” She said, politely.

“How does he do what?” Grumpy muttered.

He had his nose pinched, just to ensure that those pesky nargles didn’t slip through his nostrils and muddle with his brain.

But Happy clapped him hands together excitedly, “It’s a human expression, it’s how they greet one another! Can I interest you in a golden heart shaped locket?”

Tina frowned at him, confused by the strange turn in conversation, “I don’t have much money.” 

Happy's left eye twitched. He hated how much the humans seemed to treasure money. Of course, the dwarfs did rather like their treasures too but they only liked shiny treasures. Humans had these strange things called banknotes. These notes were, as far as Happy could tell, flimsy pieces of paper with little pictures on them. He was unsure on whether they counted as some collectable form of artwork or were meant for sketching on. The philosopher’s stone had taught them all that treasures are not rare. It was the time spent, together, collaborating on how to craft jewellery, complimenting one another, that was the true treasure.

“Who needs money when you can make friends? They call me Happy.”

Tina thought for a moment. Where had she seen Happy before? On the beds! And what were there seven of? The dwarfs. That meant that each dwarf was probably named after a bed… or each bed was named after its respective dwarf. God, Tina needed more sleep.

“Right, like the beds. So Doc must be…” Tina noticed Doc correct his posture, “You?”

“Why- yes, yes, that’s true.” Doc said, looking around at his fellow dwarfs as if anticipating them to faint from astonishment.

“And you’re Sleepy,” Tina pointed to Sleepy, who had now fallen into a deep dream, quite exhausted by the drama of this evening.

“You’re Bashful,” Bashful blushed and nodded, “And… Grumpy?”

“I know who I am.” He said, a touch ominously.

He glared at her, as if it was a personal intrusion for Tina to know his name. Tina didn’t mind though. She found is positively wonderful to meet so many curious little beings. She’d accepted that this life would be a solitary one with perhaps a squirrel or two for company. The knowledge that there were dwarfs living in this forest, even if they hated her for breaking in, filled her with relief. Sneezy sneezed.

“You must be Sneezy, so you there, you must be Dopey?”

Dopey was sat cross-legged on the floor examining his fingers.

“He don’t talk.” Doc explained to her when Dopey merely looked up at her with large, cloudy eyes.

Grumpy’s patience, however, was wearing away by the second. He couldn’t stand humans with their hat-less heads and ridiculously long legs. It was a safety hazard, if you asked him. Strange, cruel creatures without any care for dwarfs.

“What are you doing here?” Grumpy queried, delicate as ever, “Get out of our house.”

“Please don’t send me away, my step-mother wants to kill me.” Tina said, and broke down into tears.

The word ‘kill’ made the dwarfs scarper around in disarray. The subject of death was touchy for dwarfs at the best of times - hence they had created the philosopher’s stone in the first place. Life was short. Dwarfs were short. That’s all the explanation you need. The outburst woke Sleepy up. He recognised the desperation, the helplessness, the ‘princess who needs saving’ look and he’d be damned if another bloody prince was sent to ‘fix’ things. Oh no, not this time.

“You can stay.” Sleepy said to her over the frenzy.

The dwarfs stopped panicking. Tina wiped at her eyes.

“Are you a witch? You look full of black magic.” Grumpy said, his eyes scrutinising her critically.

Tina self-consciously wrapped her coat around herself a bit tighter, unsure of what exactly made her look wicked. Her grandma had always told her she had the smile of an angel, often whilst pinching her cheeks painfully hard, but grandparents were rather biased.

“I – no. I mean, yes. I am a witch but I only use nice magic, and I don’t have a wand here.”

She lifted her hands as if to show them her wand-less hands. Tina did really miss her wand. It was a comfort to know that she could accio over a bar of chocolate whenever she was in need.

“Can I interest you in a witch themed charm bracelet? It comes with a silver witch hat, owl, wand and toad!” Happy offered, brightly.

Tina didn’t know quite what she’d do with such a bracelet but didn’t have the bluntness to decline him.

She started to mumble, “Um, I-”

Bashful cut her off suddenly “A dark witch or wizard stole our stone. I don’t suppose you know who it could be?”

The room felt tense again. Even Dopey, who had been spreading his arms and legs, making dust-angels on the floorboards, halted his actions to listen. Tina found it a very strange thing to ask. These dwarfs seemed full of precious materials, what with their unusual collection of jewellery so she supposed it could have been a favoured amethyst or something.

“A stone? Why- no, no,” She paused, the dwarfs looked disappointed with this answer, and thought about who would have the heart to steal from such an innocent gaggle of dwarfs, “although it could have been my step-mother.”

“The one that wants to kill you?” Sneezy enquired.

“That’s the one.” She confirmed. Sneezy nodded, as if this was very important information that he’d just received, and blew his nose.

“Nasty piece of twerk – work. Work. You could work for us if you want?” Doc suggested.

It nice it would be to find a home here but Tina hardly thought she could fool them into believing she was a jeweller.

“I’ve never made jewellery before.” She admitted with a wry smile.

Bashful shrugged, “We have too many jewellers here anyway. Don’t suppose you can make apple pie?”

The other dwarfs apparently agreed with this idea, even Grumpy was looking mildly interested. Dopey sent her a toothy, hopeful smile. Tina considered. She was actually quite a decent cook. She’d made apple pie a few times in her life, it was her father’s favourite dessert.

“Apple pie? Yes, yes I can cook – and clean, in fact I’d actually rather like to clean this house, it’s uh, well, lovely decoration but could do with a little scrub.”

“Whatever, you can stay I guess.” Grumpy sighed, though there was a smile hidden behind his beard.

**

The next morning was certainly eventful. Tina had insisted on sleeping on their sofa downstairs. She regretted her decision immediately – the sofa was a disgraceful object. It had strange, obscure lumps and bumps that dug into Tina’s skin, a slice of pizza fused onto one of the cushions. Tina tried her best not to be grouchy because she didn’t fancy building a tree house to live in but it was difficult to be patient with the dwarfs.

“When’s breakfast?” Sneezy asked for the fifth time in the past two minutes when she was scrubbing one more clean bowl.

“Soon,” Tina replied through gritted teeth, “Why don’t you wash your hands?”

She didn’t know what she could feed them anyway. There wasn’t anything fresh in the fridge – no milk, no fruit, just a lot of frozen food. She didn’t know where they even got the frozen food from and made a note to ask about that later.

“Wash?” The dwarfs asked in unison.

It was weird how they could speak at the same time like that, unnerving.

“See! Knew there was a catch with ledding her stay.” Grumpy claimed, folding his arms smugly.

“What for? We ain’t going nowhere fancy.” Bashful muttered.

Tina was not having that attitude. Not today. She could take it from Grumpy, he at least had a name to support his rudeness but Bashful had absolutely no justification. She strode forwards and wrenched his hands forward, inspecting them. They were filthy.

“When did you last wash your hands, Bashful?”

Bashful shrugged innocently, “Why- last week, no… no, last month. That ain’t bad.”

“Well it sure ain’t good, sunshine. March straight outside and wash, or you won’t get a bite of breakfast.” Tina replied, any patience leaving her the moment she saw the dirt lining the dwarf’s hands.

The dwarfs did as she said, apparently intimidated by her mum voice. Tina sighed heavily and looked around her. Everything was such a mess. There were piles of dishes everywhere, a lack of food, and, it seemed, a lack of hygienic understanding. She wondered what Newt would be doing right now. Probably eating toast, feeding crumbs to that bowtruckle that sat in his pocket. She breathed in and tried to calm herself. There was a loud noise from outside – the dwarfs were singing about something, and splashing. The splashing was at least evidence of some progress.

She dried eight bowls and spoons and ransacked the cupboards. She eventually came across one box of cereal that wasn’t out of date quite yet. It wasn’t exactly the picturesque breakfast she’d planned, Tina thought as she poured out eight bowls of cereal, eight glasses of water, but it would do.

“Hah! Next thing ya know... She'll be tyin' your beards up in pink ribbons... And smellin' ya up with that stuff called, uh, perfoom. Hah!” Floated in the voice of Grumpy.

Tina slammed her head against the table in despair.

**

Newt was currently avoiding people. In this particular moment, the suitcase was outside the forest. Strangely enough, his place of work (home to the crazy Duchess) was the place he felt safest. At home, Theseus would now barge into his suitcase at random hours of the day. And – well – he wasn’t annoyed at his brother as such, but Theseus had a tendency now to spontaneously burst into motivational speeches about how everybody had somebody. The problem was that Theseus was also irritated at Newt’s increasingly frequent trips down the suitcase. It was difficult to slot in comments about how ‘the term is out of the closet, not out of the suitcase’ and ‘there’s a ministry party next week, you should go, might make some human friends’ alongside the ‘I love you for who you are, so will someone else one day’ ones. Whilst Newt appreciated the effort, it was about as effective for his self-esteem as it would be to use an augerey feather for writing.

“What would you do?” Newt asked Pudsey as he carefully pulled the gnome’s eyes open.

Pudsey’s eyesight had not improved lately so Newt had invented a sort of gnome eye-drop that restored at least some of his sight. The gnome had resisted against this vehemently yesterday, squirming around in Newt’s grip like a slippery penguin. The difference was remarkable, however, and today he was patient and obedient, trusting Newt entirely.

“You see gnomes like yourself don’t have to think about it all that much. You just trot along, find someone you think is remotely compatible and then suddenly there are twenty children.”

Pudsey actually had twenty-seven children but whatever.

“Humans are ridiculous. Once you’ve interacted an appropriate amount, you ask them on a date but then you’re not actually going out – oh no, then you’re just _dating_. That means you court them with flowers, lizards, chocolates and other extravagant gifts. Then, after a while, you might decide to properly go out. But it doesn’t end there, next you have to meet the family, move in together, get engaged and then get married. After that you have to think about children and anniversaries and who goes to parents evening? How much is who contributing to the groceries? Where did the word grocery even come from? It sounds gross.”

Pudsey blinked his violet eyes at Newt sympathetically. He wasn’t one for small talk but he was a damn good listener.

“Of course, that’s not how all of them work, thank goodness. But even if you don’t get married, or decide to get dogs instead of children, there’s inevitably a load of problems.”

This was something Pudsey could relate to. Their twelfth youngest, Tyrone, didn’t like mayonnaise but decided that ketchup was delicious. The red caps had been terribly polite about the whole thing, even offering a spoonful a day to keep the lad satisfied but it did make things awfully awkward. His missus cried the other day because Tyrone spilt ketchup on his blanket and she had to actually wash it off.

Newt flopped down on the ground, “I think maybe I’m not meant to be a human after all. I don’t fit in anywhere. But she did, and that’s utterly exasperating.”

Pudsey had never seen such a forlorn and pathetic looking creature. The human had not washed its hair in a few days and it showed – his curls, usually fluffy and delicate, were greasy. He’d worn the same socks for five days in a row. Gnomes didn’t actually wear socks, or clothes at all, and scarcely ever washed so Pudsey hardly noticed the smell. He did, however, see the way Newt’s ribs were protruding (from countless meals skipped to avoid his family). And, even with his appalling eyesight, he observed the dark, sunken rings around his eyes.

Newt Scamander was worried sick.

“I wish I could talk to her, and not be a blabbering idiot.” He mumbled.

Pudsey removed the mayonnaise lid crown from his head and spat into it. It was a small favour for someone who had shown his people such kindness. Newt looked up at the strange noise and watched as the gnome passed the lid to him. Pickett swung down and made a squeaky noise of astonishment.

There had been speculations about the wondrous gifts of gnome saliva for many years now. It had many beneficial properties, though few had experienced them. Of course, Newt had been licked by gnomes before, usually if he accidentally fell asleep down here and the gnomes wanted to check if he was alive, but the saliva always dried too quickly for Newt to examine it fully.

“Thank you, thank you little chap.” He said, dashing to exit the suitcase.

It was about as dark as one might expect for nine o’clock in the evening. Newt hadn’t even realised how much time had passed. His work day, in which he was instructed to chop down some trees today, had ended at half-five. He supposed Theseus probably was right to be worried. Anything could mistake the suitcase for food and chomp it up. Newt wasn’t 100% sure what would happen if the suitcase was eaten. Best not to find out.

He carefully set the lid down on the grass – which was slightly damp, damn, when did it rain? – and properly shut the suitcase. Although none of the creatures had tried to leave yet, Newt did not especially fancy chasing them around a dark forest.

Unfortunately, fate’s a tit.

Literally.

A thirsty blue-tit named Andrew had been hunting for a drink all day. He called to his partner, Pauline, who fluttered down with him to inspect the liquid on the ground. Ordinarily, Pauline was a fussy drinker. She liked mountain spring water. Which was a shame as they didn’t live in the mountains. Occasionally, Andrew would spot an abandoned bottle of water and they’d drink that but – oh, well, I’m rambling again. The birds were thirsty. The birds drank the gnome spit.

Pickett screamed from Newt's shoulder.

Newt looked over, horrified at the sight. He flapped his hands, uncharacteristic for a keen bird-watcher, and the birds hopped back, not overly threatened by the lanky man. The cap was empty. Pauline made a noise to Andrew – this water was simply unacceptable for a bird like her.

What came out of Pauline’s beak, however, was not the ordinary chirp that he loved. Oh no. It was a loud, operatic trill.

“What on earth?” Newt exclaimed in shock.

“What on earth!” Pauline echoed, then turned to Andrew in amazement. She always knew she was destined for fame but this, oh boy, this was inspiring. She could sing! She could mimic humans! She could win the Bird Factor!

“Fantastic. You sing your opera, I can fret about Tina until I die from the worry of it all.”

Andrew cocked his head. He recognised that name. Yes, Tina. Tina was the girl in the forest who had given him crumbs a few days ago.

“Tina’s in the forest.” He sung.

“Yes, I know that but I can’t…” Newt spun around, “You can understand me. You can sing opera, mimic my voice and understand me.”

“Yeeees!” They sung in duo. Gabriella and Troy had nothing on them.

Newt scratched his chin in thought, he didn’t much like ordering birds about but it was him that provided them with the gnome spit. “Could you… could you check on Tina? The girl in the forest? The one with dark hair and pretty eyes?”

“Check on Tinaaaaaaaaaa.” They sung back and flew away.

Newt watched them disappear into the forest and scratched his chin thoughtfully. Life sure was unpredictable sometimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is much later than I anticipated - and yet I don't know what I've been doing these last few days...  
> As usual, I'm not sure what happened but I hope you're enjoying it? Thanks again to everyone who has been commenting, it really does make me smile.
> 
> Oh and shout out to my lovely housemate, she hates Pudsey so I added him into this chapter just for her! <3


	5. Atrocious Singing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tina chills with some birds. Newt gets in trouble.

It was now day five of living with the dwarfs. Tina would like to say the house had improved in that time. But that would be a lie. There were still cobwebs lacing every doorway, thick layers of dust on the floor, piles of dishes on each and every surface. Tina flat out refused to touch the sofa. It should be destroyed. She slept on the floor instead, which did not in any way at all improve her sour mood.

As most parents can attest, seven small people leave a bloody big mess, especially when they absolutely refuse to clean up after themselves. It felt like she’d adopted seven toddlers, especially when considering with her recent lack of sleep. Every day she would get up early, make breakfast, nag the dwarfs to change their clothes and clean themselves, pack seven lunches and prepare something for herself, wash the dishes, prepare dinner, nag the dwarfs to wash their hands, scrub the dishes, clean the bathroom. It was unbelievable. Tina missed her wand more than ever. Her hands hurt from the amount of time they’d spent submerged in washing up water. What even was free time?

Tina’s greatest achievement by far was the improvement in groceries. Happy had cheerily introduced her to the forest ordering system – three deers would approach them every Tuesday, take their shopping list, and return with a cartload of produce on Thursday. They called it Asdeer. The dwarfs had paled alarmingly that morning when the deers arrived with only eight (instead of their usual forty-nine) pizzas and a massive, massive quantity of green stuff that Sneezy claimed to be allergic to. Tina was starting to realise that anything Sneezy disapproved of (going to bed before 12, bathing, not throwing his dirty socks on the lampshade) he would claim to be allergic to. However, even Grumpy had to confess that the unnatural orange liquid at breakfast wasn’t quite as poisonous and repulsive as it looked.

“Beware of strangers, particularly if they could be a wolf dressed up in old lady clothes.” Advised Doc as he rustled out the door that day. He warned her of this every day. Tina wondered if this was perhaps a common occurrence in the forest world.

“I’ll make sure to be very careful.” Tina promised him, deciding that that was a question for another day.

He lifted his hat in a m’lady sort of way and promptly lifted his arms to lead the dwarfs to work in an exaggerated march. They immediately started singing a ridiculous ‘heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it’s off to work we go!’ song.

(Tina had asked them the meaning of ‘heigh-ho’ yesterday, unable to restrain herself, to which Doc had, in a solemn tone, announced:

“Because, one day, we will have to sing ‘for woe, for woe, I died not long ago’.”

The other dwarfs looked down at their abnormally large feet in respect. Tina shuddered and promptly changed the subject to squirrels. Squirrels were, it seemed, another touchy subject however as one of them once stole Dopey’s hat. The dwarfs had since made him a new hat but Dopey seemed awfully put out by the whole topic and Tina almost wished she hadn't spoken at all.)

In conclusion, no one could blame Tina for singing as she did the washing up. You would too if you’d been faced with endless washing up over the past five days. Tina wasn’t the best singer to be perfectly honest. It wasn’t that she lacked musicality; her piano playing wasn’t abysmal… Okay so _at first_ she got impatient and did tend to slam her fingers down on the keys at random but aside from that she wasn’t half bad. There was something satisfying about settling her long, delicate fingers across the ivory keys, pressing down to hear that delightful ‘doo’ sound and knowing that it was all caused by such a simple action, vibrating through the strings of the very heart of the instrument. Singing though? Well. Not everyone can sing beautifully, in fact the vast majority cannot. Fortunately, Tina had always lived in a large house where any nearby creatures (human, cat, beaver, bowtruckle, whatever) could scurry away whenever she tried. Unfortunately, the Duchess had very loudly asked Tina’s father what that ‘dreadful racket’ was one dinner after the wedding. Mortified, Tina had stopped herself from singing ever since.

Tina was, therefore, shocked when two birds willingly entered the perimeter while she was singing. 

The birds, Pauline and Andrew had been searching for Tina all night and were thoroughly exhausted. The forest was enormous and Andrew had, typically, insisted that he knew the way back to the cottage where they’d last spotted Tina like the back of his foot. When a piercing, toneless noise echoed from a few metres away they investigated immediately and found the human to be the source of the sound. It was odd, Tina was most definitely human, yet the sound was that of a yowling cat. Andrew muttered under his breath that she wasn’t the only female in the forest to suffer this predicament. Pauline pecked him.

“Maybe I’m not as bad as I think, after all, what does a Duchess know about singing?” Tina thought out loud.

“Tiinnna.” Andrew cooed.

Tina stared at the bird blandly, not overly excited by its ability to speak English. Andrew and Pauline looked at each other in abhorrence. Honestly, the audacity of some humans! Yet if one of their kind could fly without one of those broomstick things, they would doubtlessly be amazed.

She sighed after a moment, “Newt sent you, didn’t he?”

“Suiiiiitcase.” Pauline agreed.

Yes, she supposed, that was a reasonable nickname for Newt. Suitcase. She had yet to see Newt without that bloody suitcase.

“Well, you can tell him that I’m fine. Absolutely fine. Other than the fact that I live a house-elf’s worst nightmare.”

This comment certainly ruffled some feathers. There are several differences between pigeons and blue tits. The blue tit has a distinctive azure-blue crown and tail, white cheeks and delicately marked eyeliner with a yellowish green underbelly. They are a most stylish and colour coordinated bird. Pigeons are quite beautiful in their own right too, with grey or white feathers that often carry a turquoise sheen. Under the scornful eyes of a blue tit, however, the pigeon is effectively a flying rock.

“We’re not carrier pigeons!” Pauline squawked, disgusted and embarrassed by such a suggestion.

The blue tit lives a hectic enough life without dashing around, fulfilling the tasks of ungrateful humans. Pauline had a good mind to just fly on back to her favourite tree. A robin named Harold had been eyeing it up for a while, come to think of it. It would be nice to go home before his filthy toes landed on her branch.

“Right, sorry, of course you’re not.” She sighed, “Have you come far?”

“Been flying all night,” Andrew said, then whistled a little.

Tina frowned at the little birds, who must surely be exhausted after such a long time flying, and were now preening their feathers wearily. She paused her washing to pour them a little pot of water. They didn’t have any bird food here, something Tina thought she might add onto the next shopping list – it wasn’t as though the dwarfs were short on money. They did have some bread, though, so she soaked that in hot water and put that down. She coughed and the birds turned, surprised at the mini feast that lay in front of them.

“This is for us?” Andrew asked, cocking his head up hopefully.

Tina nodded in encouragement, “You’ve come a long way, I appreciate it.”

Andrew fluttered over right away and dunked his head in the bread. Tina wasn’t sure if bread was actually healthy for birds but the way Andrew was scoffing it down, she doubted it would kill him.

“I don’t drink tap water.” Pauline said, dismissively, scowling at her partner's eagerness and turning to the window again.

“Oh, we have some bottled water in the fridge if you’d like?”

This certainly did perk her interest. Twenty minutes later, Pauline was using her beak to navigate a washing up scrubber up and down a plate, chirping to Tina in between each wipe about the difficulties of building a nest.

“Say, you wouldn’t mind if I ate that spider, would you?” Andrew asked, emerging from the pot of water he’d been slurping down.

“Go ahead, I’ve been meaning to get rid of them.” Tina shrugged, gleefully.

She never thought that her life would change so drastically – from lurking in the darkest corners of the house her step-mother had inherited to cleaning seven dwarfs’ house accompanied by some helpful blue tits.

“You know, we have some friends nearby, reckon they’d do a good job of clearing away anymore, eh, cobwebs, if you want?”

And that was how Tina found herself cleaning the cottage with the help of a flock of deer, rabbits, birds and squirrels. Andrew headed the spider-eating/cobweb-sweeping squad proudly, fluttering through the windows to flap off any mess gathered. Pauline had enlisted the help of three magpies to finish the washing up. The squirrels and rabbits diligently swept the floors and walls with their tails, dusting away years of cleaning-neglect. The deers were mostly there for the aesthetic, though one of them did rip off the pizza from the sofa. Tina, meanwhile, was stood in the centre of it all, occasionally passing plates to the birds or opening cupboards.

Andrew had, kindly, given Tina a brief singing lesson during his cobweb duties and Tina’s voice could now be described as ‘endearingly bad’ instead of ‘ear-splitting’. He and Pauline tweeted the introduction of one of his favourite tunes and he pecked Tina on the head to prompt her.

“Just whistle while you work,” Tina sung automatically.

The other birds whistled back at her. They hadn’t ever met a human quite so happy to have them in their home. Why, the last time Angus the squirrel came in here he merely tried on a hat and was chased out with a broomstick and cup.

“And cheerfully together we can tidy up the place. So, hum a merry tune.”

She hummed as the birds flew around her, tweeting quietly.

“It won’t take long when there’s a song to help you set the pace.”

The sound of the squirrels’ tails practically buzzing to motor tea towels across plates added to the instrumental. Tina scurried around, tossing the dried plates into the cupboard. Two starlings held her hair from her face so she wouldn’t accidentally get some in her mouth from all the singing and moving.

“And as you sweep the room, imagine that the broom is someone that you love and soon you'll find you're dancing to the tune.”

This line rather fell flat as there were no brooms, only the tails of rabbits and a couple of spare squirrels polishing the floorboards. Regardless, Tina couldn’t wait to tell Newt about this when she next saw him – if she ever saw him – why, the sight of all these animals, working in cooperation with humanity, was right up his alley. A stag tottered down the stairs at this point, antlers lined with various articles of clothing.

“When hearts are high the time will fly so whistle while you work.” Tina sung as she plucked the clothing gently off the stag and popped them in a barrel to fill with water and washing detergent later.

The dwarfs would be in for quite a shock when they returned home that evening.

**

“Mr. Scamander, I’m sure you know why I’ve asked you here.” Said the Duchess, glowering at him with disdain.

Newt had been minding his own business, trying to move some horklumps out of the premises (a difficult task since horklumps are eaten by gnomes and Newt wasn’t sure how he felt about killing an entire colony this way) when the Duchess’ servant appeared seemingly out of nowhere and demanded that he go to her office immediately. The expression on the servants’ face had been so grim that Newt was certain that this was it – they must have finally cottoned onto the fact he’d been hiding any and all ‘dangerous’ creatures in his suitcase.

The servant had been nothing, however, nothing compared to the lady in front of him. If Vinda Rosier had seemed unstable when she was crushing the heart, now she was positively insane. A frightening picture of purple, with scowling plum lips and sharply contoured cheek bones. The most unsettling part about Vinda, Newt thought to himself, was the graceful way in which she conducted herself. Newt had encountered a rageful erumpent before. It was chaotic and destructive, sinking its horn into whatever lay in its path (bench, lamp post, building), stomping so hard that the ground crumbled beneath it. And yet the power of that was nothing, nothing compared to Vinda Rosier. Humans, Newt reminded himself, are the most dangerous creature out there. They’re unpredictable, rowdy, impulsive, arrogant and yet also strangely logical. Newt had no doubt that, to the Duchess, whatever she had to say made perfect sense.

“Yes, and I really ought to be quite sorry for what I’ve done but-” he started.

She cut him off, “But you’re not, are you? Where did you even get that heart from?”

Oh, Newt thought. Oh no. Not that. Not Tina. His mind lost all coherent thought, it was like his head was filled with the flashing lights of a lighthouse, frantically signalling to a boat that wouldn’t ever see the land it was about to crash into. Vinda stood up and started prowling around her desk. Newt had never related more to the poor mayonnaise that the gnomes enjoyed eating.

“I, er,” He hesitated, honey coloured curls spilling over his eyes. “I came across it. How did y-”

Vinda wiped around to face the wall, violet cloak billowing behind her. Newt had never paid much attention to the decoration in the Duchess’ office. It was always so cold in here that his brain had never felt up to questioning why there was a massive gold-rimmed mirror on the wall. Even if it had been, his first assumption would have been that the Duchess rather liked checking out how she looked. She did, after all, have a pristine grace about her, from her delicately styled hair to the (quite frankly impressive) contouring of her makeup.

“Magic mirror on the wall,” She said, and a smoky haze suddenly filled the mirror, “who is the fairest one of all?”

A face appeared in the mirror, a terrible face with a blue, square forehead and lime coloured chin. Newt wondered what sort of entity this thing was. It certainly didn’t look like anything he’d ever read about. Generally speaking, Newt didn’t much believe in ‘bad creatures’ but there was something about the soulless eyes and empty expression that made him quiver. Its mouth opened. Newt stared. There were no teeth. To be fair, it would be hard to send a mirror to the dentist.

“Over the seven jewelled hills, beyond the seventh fall, in the cottage of the seven dwarf, dwells Snow White, fairest one of all.”

It had a deep, foreboding voice that would suit slam poetry pretty well. Newt frowned. Were there hills in the forest? He supposed there were mole hills, perhaps that was what mirror dude was referring to. The Duchess was, it seemed, equally confused. She started pacing again.

“Snow… who?” She said.

The mirror face watched his mistress intently, eyes swirling a little to follow her around the room. It was only when Vinda paused that he answered her question.

“Dear lord, woman, I can’t exactly call her Tina now can I. Why, that’d be the least dramatic name ever… expect perhaps Frank or Elma or… in retrospect, her full name, Porpentina, isn’t so bad.”

 _Porpentina?_ Newt thought to himself, intrigued to learn Tina’s full name. He’d assumed it was short for Christine or Valentina perhaps, not Porpentina. _Porcupine_. The porcupine is a remarkably wondrous creature. Contrary to the belief that they are violent, spike shooting devils, the porcupine actually has soft hair mixed in with sharp quills that remain flat on their back unless they feel threatened. They tend to live alone after a mere two months of life and are skilled tree climbers. It is most certainly an animal worth naming your first-born daughter after.

The Duchess seemed tired of the mirror’s rambling, however, apparently disinterested in the topic of names. She snapped open the top desk drawer so aggressively that a pencil rolled off the desk. Newt watched it clunk onto the floor and rather wished he could join it down there.

She retrieved the heart box and turned to the mirror again, “Silence, slave. Tina is dead. Behold, the heart that the huntsman gave me.”

The mirror looked unimpressed by this, “That… that is an empty box.”

“Your highness.” The Duchess said through gritted teeth.

The face in the mirror beamed. In fact, if Newt wasn’t mistaken, it seemed to have a faint turquoise blush to it. “Well, that certainly is a step up from slave! Thank you very much.”

She collapsed into her chair again, “No, you call- oh, forget it. The heart is gone.”

There was an audible pause, “You crushed it didn’t you.”

Vinda looked down at her lap, fumbling with her hands awkwardly, avoiding eye-contact with the mirror. This seemed to be a conversation that she’d had with the mirror before. Newt supposed that her heart-squashing abilities were rather too good for a first-timer.

“Well, I-”

The mirror sighed, “We’ve talked about this before, Vee. You can have the looks, have the money, but you can’t just go around crushing people’s hearts. People don’t like it. It’s creepy.”

Newt had to agree with that. He wasn’t exactly a judgmental soul – heck, he spent more time in a suitcase than with humans, but even he found the habit of destroying hearts with her bare hands slightly too weird.

“Whatever. He gave me the heart—and it was definitely a human one this time, no pigs.” She said, pointing an accusing finger at Newt.

Newt glanced at the door and wondered what chance he’d have at making a run for it. The mirror could definitely see through him. He made a note to remove any mirrors he had in his house, just in case any lingering omniscient faces secretly resided in them.

“Yeah it wasn’t hers though, that was the heart of that lady, whatshername, the gingerbread one, Madeline or something.”

Newt wondered if he could perhaps get hold of the local quidditch team, they had quite the biggest snitch he’d ever seen here.

“Maurine?” Vinda asked, arching an eyebrow in shock.

“That’s it.”

The Duchess didn’t seem especially upset by the death of Maurine. If anything, she was impressed, looking between Newt and the mirror in astonishment. She had probably assumed that Newt had murdered her in a gory, huntsman style way.

“How on earth did he get Maurine’s heart?” She inquired in a loud whisper.

“Oh, she was already dead. He doesn’t do the whole death thing, he’s not like you.”

This time, Newt made sure to properly glare at the mirror. Now he didn’t even look intimidating. He was just the cowardly huntsman who failed to actually kill anything. The Duchess glared too, equally disappointed by the mirror’s report.

“And you waited this long to tell me?”

The face in the mirror scowled at her, “Don’t call me out on that. You never want to talk to me anymore, not unless you need something disturbing like that and I- I’m getting tired of it.”

The Duchess’ face, somehow, softened. Newt wondered how long they’d known each other. He, personally, would definitely read a fanfiction about their entire back story.

“Oh, don’t be like that.” She said, gently.

The mirror was not to be soothed though, “No- no, I, I’m upset. We’ve been friends for what, ten years? And you treat me like I’m just a piece of furniture. So, sue me if the few times you do talk to me, I want to share makeup tips.”

Newt coughed. This felt like a scene that he shouldn’t be witnessing. It was like that time he entered the suitcase and found a gnome eating ketchup, terrified family and friends watching the betrayal with pale faces.

The Duchess was irritated by his interruption, “You. You blundering fool. You will stay here and I shall dispose of the little cretin myself.”

“I’d really prefer it if you didn’t.” He piped up, unable to resist himself.

He had absolutely no doubt that this terrifying lady could, and would, murder Tina. He still didn’t totally understand her motivation behind murdering her but hey, some people are just like that. The Duchess wiped out her wand and waved it nonchalantly. A pair of handcuffs wound themselves around his wrists. It seemed like a rather half-hearted form of restraint, though Newt was hardly going to call her out on it. It’s not like he could anyway – her second wand wave stuck a patch of tape across his lips.

“Silence. Yes, I will go in disguise… I like dressing up. No one will ever suspect.” She said, clapping her hands together.

She sashayed through the door, slamming it behind her like a teenager having a tantrum. There was an awkward silence for a while in which the mirror observed Newt struggling in his hand cuffs. The hand cuffs seemed to tighten every time he pulled on them. He peered up at the mirror and the mirror, despite having no shoulders, shrugged.

“I wouldn’t worry, her outfits are always drab, attention-seeking rubbish, they’ll see right through her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will... probably... be the last? I don't know. This whole thing was meant to be 6000 word prequel to another fic I'm in the process of re-writing, somehow I've rambled my way this far? Don't worry, Tina and Newt will eventually meet again it's just going to take a little while. Let me know what you think of it all so far, I love reading your comments.


	6. Piercing Screaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> poisoned apples and stuff

The Goldstein attic used to be a place of solitude, somewhere Mr. Goldstein would retreat on his more… challenging days. His wife had passed away from the combination of a particularly lethal bout of dragon pox and the stress of Queenie’s disappearance. It was distressing how in such a short space of time he managed to lose two of the most precious, wonderful people in his life. And yet it felt like everyone was waiting for him to break down. The neighbours were infuriating, popping over for surprise visits at least three times a day with, for some odd reason, trays of lasagna. Initially, he had mistaken this as an action of kindness, but he quickly realised that it was merely a ploy to snoop on him, ensure that Tina was being cared for. The whispering seemed to follow him everywhere – into town, during her funeral, at the auror office, wherever he went he could hear the hushed tones of anxious observers: ‘Doesn’t the child look underfed’, ‘Too young to be separated from her mother’, ‘Such a sad looking girl’. He supposed that their concern was valid. Tina didn’t deserve such tragedy to befall on her, especially at such a young age, and she was never quite as giggly as the other children. But they were wrong in their assumptions that this was from neglect. On the contrary, Mr. Goldstein doted on his daughter, treasuring every moment that he got with her. He delighted in the times that her mouth would twitch into a smile, tried to amaze her, show her how truly beautiful the littlest things were, from the bowtruckles in the tree to baking flapjacks. He could hardly be blamed for disappearing upstairs, just for ten minutes or so, every night after going through the same routine of fumbling in the darkness, reaching out for someone that wasn’t here anymore.

The attic used to have a minimalist design to say the least. There was a large, marmalade coloured armchair in one corner with a lamp next to it that projected a warm light. A pile of books on the floor was nearly always favoured as a coffee table rather than reading material for him as he sat, too stuck processing his own thoughts to read anyone else's. On some of the particularly restless nights, he’d turn to the telescope, which pointed out of an awkwardly shaped hole in the roof that he really should fix.

It wasn’t like that anymore, of course. Vinda had sprinted to the attic the very day that Mr. Goldstein died, excited to see what exactly he’d been hiding upstairs. Needless to say, she was disappointed with what she’d found. The room had since been repurposed into a storeroom for some potion’s equipment and disguises. The daughter was annoyingly nosy for the first month, poking her nose into the Duchess’ study every time she left the house and riffling through her paperwork. And yes, Vinda did notice, she had a meticulous filing system and that brat _never_ put things back in the right place. Some of Vinda’s potions were not, strictly speaking, legal. It would have been rather troublesome if the weasel had found them, so up in the attic they went. The girl wasn’t remotely curious about the attic. Maybe she was scared of attics? Maybe it reminded her too much of her father?

Now, the room was home to three large pewter cauldrons (which was overkill, really, but Vinda once put it on her Christmas list and three people decided to buy her one – three – and no one, no one at all, bought her the snake she’d asked for) in the centre of the room. There was a glossy black cabinet on one wall, stocked with intriguing vials, and several drawers full of bizarre looking items on another. She had painted three of the walls magenta, the fourth black, and yet the floorboards remained shabby, untreated. There were hooks lining the black wall which hung various cloaks that seemed to meld into the general darkness like shadows. Since dismantling the telescope, which now lay abandoned in the corner, an even chillier draft blew into the room through the ceiling hole. The only source of light, other than this was the lamp that Mr. Goldstein had used for reading. It felt out of place now.

“A formula to transform my beauty into ugliness.” Vinda announced to the empty room.

Fantastic, the telescope thought to itself, first she throws me into the corner, now she’s talking to herself. The dialogue wasn’t even original, the telescope could have sworn he’d heard it before somewhere. Or at least it would have sworn that. If telescopes could think.

“Change my queenly raiment to a peddler’s cloak.”

As she said this, she turned to the hooks and clasped one the cloaks, whipping it on. She spread her arms and admired how the material glided like a bat wing, and pulled up the hood. It made sense to wear a hood. There surely had to be a reason why Robin Hood was notorious for being excellent at crafting a disguise, after all.

She stepped towards the cabinet and plucked out a few vials, briefly glaring at their labels without much care and tossing them into her favoured cauldron.

“Mummy dust to make me old. To shroud my clothes, the black of night. To age my voice, an old hag’s cackle. To whiten my hair, a scream of fright.”

A strange smell started to exude from the cauldron, which was probably to be expected given the unusual ingredients she had tossed inside of it. In all honesty, I can’t tell you whether or not she actually threw in what she said. Can you bottle a scream or a cackle? Personally, I have my doubts, it is more likely that she threw in a sprinkle of coriander and a pinch of salt. Never trust coriander. It is the herb of wicked deeds.

“A blast of wind… to fan my hate! A thunderbolt… to mix it well.”

By this, she meant that she had stirred the mixture and then heated it up. Next time you find yourself in the kitchen with a family member or housemate nearby, try poetically announcing everything you do like Vinda Rosier does. They probably won’t eat your cooking but their reaction will most definitely be worth that sacrifice.

“Now… begin thy magic spell.” She said and poured out a generous teaspoon.

The stuff tasted about as good as it smelt – which was really quite bad. It was like someone had pulled a Safiya Nygaard on the very worst Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans had to offer. Earwax and vomit and earth all at once. Vinda’s face and hair paled instantly to a ghostly white. Her skin visibly shuddered, then erupted into a wrinkled sort of complexion, rather like it was a dirty shirt that had been tossed on the floor and trampled on. She felt a sudden compulsion to bend forwards, as though her spine had moved, and hunched over with ease.

“And now.” She began, then coughed because some of the mummy dust had got stuck in her throat and, yes, okay, now her voice was raspy enough to pass for an elderly woman. “A death to fit one so fair.” Vinda rummaged around in her drawers looking for the most innocent item possible, it would hardly seem normal to present someone with a skull after all, she was not Hamlet. She was about to give herself a break when she noticed the lunch one of her servants had procured for her, “An apple! One taste of the poisoned apple and the victim’s eyes will close forever in the sleeping death.”

It was jolly good luck that she'd come across the apple, she'd used apples before and found that they worked a treat with this sort of magic. She dipped the apple into an abandoned cup of tea and then sprayed it with a can of liquid ‘eternal sleep’ and left it on the side for a moment to settle whilst she washed her hands. She was always careful with eternal sleep spray.

“Dip the apple in the brew. Let the sleeping death seep through.”

She pocketed the apple and smiled goofily at her own wit. There was no mirror up here so she couldn’t admire how amazing she looked (once you’ve had a mirror spill the gossip to you about everything you start realising how reflections are much more dangerous than they appear) but she knew she looked fabulous. It was late now, and she was almost certain that the dwarfs would be home… really, it would have made more sense to do this whole dressing up thing in the morning but she’d gotten a little over-excited, it had been a while since she’d murdered someone. For now, she sunk down onto the floorboard and curled herself into a ball. Being a villain is exhausting work and Vinda knew she’d need her strength tomorrow morning if all was to go to plan.

**

The dwarfs were rather shaken to return home to a place completely free of dust and dirty washing. Dopey immediately pressed his palms to the floor, then lifted them to inspect the dust (or lack thereof) on his hands, a haunted look in his eyes. The animals had, fortunately, fled before the dwarfs had entered their home. Tina knew their reservation over squirrels and rather hoped that Dopey couldn’t smell them on the floor – he certainly looked offended.

“Is lovely,” Bashful said, plaiting his snow-white beard nervously, “But, er, I don’t suppose you’ve seen a spider?”

Tina had, indeed seen quite a few spiders. They were gobbled down by the birds earlier, who apparently found spider a most delectable dish. She gulped, trying to think of the nicest way to explain how the circle of life worked – she didn’t have any giraffes or lions available for a musical number.

“They’ve gone on an adventure, Bashful dear, wanted to… stretch their eight legs.” Tina rambled, avoiding eye-contact with the blushing dwarf.

“Oh, well, I’ll miss them terribly.” Bashful said, wiping his teary eyes on his sleeve, “But I’m sure they’ll have a marv’llous time.”

“Goly, it looks cracking in here!” Happy exclaimed, though his eyes were bulging slightly at the shut cupboards.

He squidged his cheeks nervously, wondering if it would be impolite to open them up – only, if he was a tea-cup he wouldn’t especially like to stare at a blank wall all day, and really, he did suspect that one of the large plates was scared of the dark. Tina beamed at him, though, and he thought that maybe he would let the plates out at night time to avoid upsetting her.

“You ate my pizza.” Grumpy howled from where he was perched on the sofa, black eyebrows furrowing together.

Tina scoffed, “If you’d have eaten that… that filthy bit of mould… you’d probably have died.”

Grumpy stomped over to her, huffing and puffing in quite a ridiculous manner. Fortunately, his loud movements roused Sleepy, who stood up quickly.

“Well, all this hard-work has made me quite tired. Why don’t we have an early night?”

Tina nodded enthusiastically, though she wasn’t quite sure that sleep would be safe. Grumpy was seething, nose so red that it would probably burn to touch it. She truly had underestimated how much dwarfs adore pizza and cursed herself for not realising that the pizza belonged to Grumpy, it did, after all, have those controversial lumps of pineapple on it.

“Jiminy crickets,” Doc murmured, staring with damp eyes at the empty washing up liquid bottle, which he cupped in his hands like it was a beloved possession, “I don’t know if I can sleep.”

Happy clapped his hands together, “Sounds like we need a bedtime story.”

This cheered everyone up instantly. Dopey rose from the floor and spun around in delight. Doc cheerfully dropped the washing up liquid bottle in the bin, apparently no longer distraught over his loss. Tina dreaded to think how long that bottle had sat either under the cupboard or cradled in his arms.

“Yes, tell us a story!” The dwarfs said in unison.

Tina really really hated it when they did that. A story seemed a reasonably easy compromise for tidying up their rat-hole though. There was no way in hell she’d have been able to live in this place with all that dust and grime.

“I, uh, sure. I can do stories.” She paused, settling herself down at her seat of the table, “What sort of story?”

The dwarfs slumped onto their respective chairs and sighed in content.

“A love story.” Bashful answered immediately, lips twisting into a daft sort of smile.

Shockingly, Grumpy seemed to have no objections to this. He did avert eye-contact though, like the subject of love stories was something uncomfortable for him. This powered Tina to begin her story – the issue was that she didn’t actually know any love stories. She knew the general concept was boy-meets-girl, both of whom are rather attractive and fall in love too quickly. Her father generally refused to tell such stories, appalled by the double-dosage of heteronormality and sexism. Tina panicked, though, as most of us do when we’re stared at by seven, expectant dwarfs, and blurted out what first came to mind.

“Once upon a time there was a princess.” She started, “And she fell in love.”

“Was it hard to do?” Sneezy asked.

He’d been suspiciously quiet this evening. Not a single sneeze had erupted from the little dwarf. Tina wondered if perhaps he was just allergic to dust the whole time. Although, she still mostly believed in her conspiracy that his whole ‘allergies’ thing was a lie to get his way.

“It was very easy, anyone could see that the prince was, uh, charming?”

What did charming even mean? Agreeable? Submissive? Pleasant? It was such an umbrella term. Prince Charming may as well have been code for Prince Popular. The most charming people Tina knew were often salesmen, who were usually only friendly if money could be handed out. Really, if you’re only being nice to sell something then are you, in earnest, charming? Tina couldn’t remember the last person who was genuinely nice, without an ulterior motive – except, perhaps, Newt. Newt didn’t gain anything by saving her life, sending birds to check-up on her and generally being kind to her.

“Was he mong and strandsome? – Strong and handsome?” Doc asked suddenly.

“Big and muscular?” Happy added.

For some reason, Tina’s head was now filled with images of Newt. She shook her head to try shake the thought out of her system. Newt Scamander was not a prince. He was a huntsman. And a bloody awful huntsman at that. Unfortunately, the dwarfs saw the head-shake and startled, assuming it was in answer to the questions.

“Uh,” Tina began, trying to think of an alternative way to describe a prince other than strong, handsome, big and muscular, “He was, well, tall? Yes, very tall, lanky, with tousled gingerbread brown hair.”

What in the name of Merlin? Gingerbread brown? Was she a fanfiction writer? Most of the dwarfs didn’t seem to mind though. On the contrary, Happy, Dopey and Sneezy were all slumped over the table, head resting on their arms, with wistful smiles.

“Oh my,” Said Happy, quite content for this ‘prince’ to swoop him onto a horse and gallop into the sunset.

“There ain’t nobody like him anywhere at all.” She continued, impressed with how convincing she sounded.

“Did he say he loved you?” Sleepy said, though there was a sad sort of glint in his eyes, as though he had experienced heartbreak through a prince.

“Me? I’m not a princess, silly.” She giggled nervously and looked down at the table, “Oh he was quite romantic… in his own way.”

“This is a shit story,” Grumpy huffed, “There’s no plot to it.”

Tina looked up and met Grumpy’s gaze. He was, for once, correct. She was all for a fluff-without-plot sort of story but this was problematic at best.

“You’re right, it doesn’t work. Besides, why should you have to be royalty to fall in love? Why does the prince get lots of description but not the princess? Why should she love him just because he’s good looking?” Grumpy gawked at her, not accustomed to having Tina agree with his criticism so easily, “I’ll tell you another story -- There were once three brothers who were traveling along a lonely, winding road at twilight…”

**

Newt was in rather a sticky situation. The Duchess had left him in her office, handcuffed, mouth shut with tape. The door was locked and every attempt to clamber out of the windows had failed so far. Pickett had tried his hardest to undo the handcuffs throughout the night but they had some sort of enchantment on them that meant every attempt slightly tightened the grip. All in all, he was doomed. Newt had therefore elected to sleep.

The mirror watched him, entertained immensely. Usually, his mistress would dismiss him after a conversation and he’d be forced to keep his beautiful face out of the mirror for a while. Yesterday, however, Vinda had opted to dramatically leave mid-plan. He was still mightily annoyed at Vinda. Unfortunately, magic items cannot slam doors or run away when they’re mistreated. His cousin was stuck in a tacky looking lamp so he supposed matters could be far worse. Regardless, he pitied the boy, who he’d seen free several creatures over the past few weeks. Newt had been a fantastic source of joy for the mirror with his unusually kind and thoughtful outlook.

“You okay hun?” He called to him.

Newt startled, waking up instantly. He tried to reply, then remembered that he had a pesky piece of tape over his mouth. He frowned. Tape was hardly difficult to remove, even for a bowtruckle. He stared at Pickett and wiggled his nose slightly to motion towards his mouth. Pickett happily clambered up his body and grappled with the tape, swinging off it to tear it off in one swoop.

“You clever bowtruckle,” He gushed, “Thank you ever so much, Pickett.”

Pickett twirled, clearly proud of himself for managing such a task without hurting Newt, then returned to his pocket – it was hard work, taking off tape, he deserved a nap. The mirror’s presence felt looming and Newt glanced up at it expectantly.  

“Thought I’d update you. Vee’s heading down to the forest now, her outfit is really not complimenting her figure, and- gosh, what has she done to her hair and skin?”

Newt swallowed. Whilst he was somewhat pleased to hear that her outfit wasn’t particularly good today, he was more anxious about Tina’s fate.

“She’s going to kill her today, isn’t she?”

The mirror's face contorted to something slightly more sympathetic, “Mm, I can’t predict stuff, sweet cheeks, but it does look likely.”

“That’s – really not ideal, not at all. See, I quite like Tina, she’s er, well, she’s an intelligent person, an excellent human all in all.” Newt explained. He had an itch on his nose but he didn’t want to risk shrinking the handcuffs even more by jostling them so tried to ignore it.

“Oh,” The mirror said, looking awkward, “It might make you feel better to hear that Vee’s got one of those death apple things, she’ll fall into an eternal sleep – no pain.”

The words ‘death apple’ certainly did not fill Newt with relief, though it was a good to know that Tina wouldn’t be tortured at least. Then again, Newt wondered, did Tina get nightmares? If so then an eternal sleep could be quite miserable for her. Was eternal sleep the same thing as death? Was death just sleeping forever? Newt felt torn between asking and remaining silent, afraid of the answer.

“Great – although, I was wondering, you don’t happen to know an antidote to that, do you, or will she just be gone forever?” He eventually asked.

The mirror looked to the top of its frame thoughtfully, “Apples… apples… you can always dislodge the apple?”

“Wh-really? That seems far too easy.”

Not that he was complaining. It just seemed strange that merely removing the apple could reverse it. They had to be missing something – a dragon, perhaps, or a spot of sword fighting?

The mirror winked at him, “Some sources swear by true love’s kiss but the original cure was just to move the apple out of the mouth, so they’re just trying to make a non-consensual act romantic.”

Whilst love was, most definitely, a strong feeling capable of wondrous, magical things, Newt had to agree with the mirror here. He didn’t much believe in love at first sight so the idea of a complete stranger (soulmate or otherwise) snogging him seemed ludicrous. Even if it had been a spouse who he’d been married to for fifty years, he thought he’d really rather they ask before initiating a kiss, both for the sake of respect and to ensure that he’d brushed his teeth first.

“Yes, that is quite ridiculous, wouldn’t the er, victim, be rather peeved at being kissed when they’re asleep?”

The face distorted slightly in what Newt assumed to be a shudder, “I would be. Heck, these lips aren’t meant to be kissed by just anyone. The idea is that you’re giving them the kiss of life so you pretty much owe them your life and feel obliged to marry them.”

Newt couldn’t help but look at the mirror’s lips. They were small, dusty violet coloured lips which seemed to bulge more on the edges than in the centre. Newt had no desire to kiss them personally, but he was sure that someone out there would be thrilled to do so.

He squirmed about, trying to get himself more comfortable on the floor. The Duchess could have at least provided him with a cushion of some sort, he thought bitterly. The suggestion that someone would feel indebted to someone for a kiss they didn’t even ask for, and marry them because of this was truly heart-breaking. And yet, by the sad look in the mirror face’s eyes, Newt could tell that he’d witnessed this happen before. What sort of a monster would allow a harmless person to give themselves to them when they’d only kissed once?

“Tragic,” Newt said, frowning, “If it’s so easily cured, though, why would she give Tina a poisoned apple? Why not just stab her?”

“Eh, I dunno, no one else does it. I have told her – stop trying to make poisoned apples happen, it’s not going to happen, but she never listens.”

It seemed that a lot of the mirror’s relationship with the Duchess was based on social etiquette lectures. First the heart crushing thing, now this. It must have been frustrating to live your life behind a shield of glass, talking to someone so crazy that they think disintegrating hearts and poisoning innocent people with apples is a good use of time. Still, it was nice that the Duchess was close to someone.

“I don’t suppose she told you how to get out of these handcuffs?”

As soon as the Duchess returned from sending Tina to sleep with the apple, he knew he’d be slaughtered. He really would rather be gone by the time she returned. There were a few benefits to staying alive right now – firstly, he could either help Tina to dislodge the apple, secondly, he had a suitcase full of creatures that needed a steady supply of sauce, thirdly he wasn’t sure if Pickett would be fond of his favourite tree being dead.

“The enchantment wears off after twenty-four hours, might as well wait. Hey, I could always send a message to one of your friends? Get the witch arrested before she murders you?”

“If you wouldn’t mind, that would be awfully useful.” Newt said, enthusiastic for them to be able to fix something at least.

“No problemo, I’ve been watching you for a while. Let’s see… Theseus is usually shaving at the moment?”

This was mildly creepy but Newt didn’t want to lose the mirror as a friend so decided not to question exactly how much time he spent spying on him and his family.

“Yes, he’d be ideal. Thank you, mirror.”

“Be right back.” The face said and disappeared into a haze of purple.

**

“Now, I’m warnin’ you. Don’t let nobody or nothin’ into the house.” Grumpy threatened Tina that morning as the dwarfs departed for the mine.

Dopey had awoken the entire household that morning by dropping plates on the floor. Whilst Tina was mostly irritated at this action, which she insisted that he clean up himself, the other dwarfs looked at it as a sign. Dopey apparently could see the future. The last time he’d thrown plates on the floor, a fly drowned in Sneezy’s cup of tea. Tina wasn’t sure how they’d reached the conclusion that Dopey’s plate smashing routine had predicted such an event but whatever. The dwarfs had been extra careful around Tina this morning, moving tea cups away from her as though they were worried that she’d drown in one too.

“Oh Grumpy, you do care!” Tina said and picked the dwarf up to squeeze him into a hug.

The dwarf did not enjoy this personal space violation, “Mehgh,” he complained, face mushed against Tina’s coat. She carefully lifted him to the floor before he died from the sudden affection.

“I just don’t want no squirrel fur in my tea!” He exclaimed, red-faced, and marched towards the mines.

Tina chuckled, then returned to the house. She was in a particularly good mood today. The house was clean, the pizza had been torn off the sofa, she had high hopes that her little bird friends would keep her updated on Newt, and everything was generally looking up. It felt like a fine time to bake some gooseberry pie. Whilst Tina did not want to remain a housewife forever, it wasn’t a bad life. She’d heard somewhere that every problem could be solved if you bake it into a pie. Provided that wasn’t taken literally (in which case, her pie would be filled with the Duchess and a couple of bad grades that distressed her to this day), it felt like a decent mantra to live by. She marvelled at the cleanliness of the baking bowl and sifted in some flour when there was a knock on the door.

Tina huffed at the interruption and dashed to the door. She opened it and was face-to-face with an elderly lady with straw-like, white hair and worryingly deep wrinkles. Remembering the dwarfs many qualms about opening the door to strangers, Tina thought that this was a very bad idea. She should have run upstairs and pretended no one was home.

“All alone, my pet?” The lady asked in a hoarse voice.

Tina examined the woman in front of her – she certainly didn’t smell like a wolf. Tina had never met a wolf but, given their relation to dogs, assumed that they too carried that sort of stench around with them. No, it looked like a frail old lady, probably here to pry.

Tina scratched at her skirt awkwardly, “Why—why, yes, I am, but-”

“The little men are not here?”

At this, Tina looked up immediately. It irritated her intensely how this random woman seemed concerned about her being home alone – she was an adult woman. She did not need dwarf supervision thank you very much. Her statement also suggested that the woman knew the dwarfs, so it seemed funny that they wouldn’t mention her at all, especially given the copious warnings not to open the door. This just kept getting fishier.

“No, they’re not, why should that matter?” She said, stiffly.

The lad sniffed, “Makin’ pies?”

This was odd because Tina had only poured out the flour so it wasn’t as though there was anything strong to smell. Maybe she was a wolf after all.

“Yes, gooseberry pie.”

And she’d really rather get back to making pies.

“Yuck, gooseberry. It’s apple pies that makes the menfolks’ mouths water. Pies made from apples like these.” She said and produced a handy bag of apples.

What nonsense was that! Tina never said that she was making pies for the dwarfs – and she wasn’t, for that matter. It wasn’t anyone’s birthday. If they wanted a damn pie then they could make it for themselves. She liked gooseberry. She was having gooseberry. And besides, who the hell carries around bags of apples to give out just in case someone is baking the ‘wrong’ sort of pie?

“They look great but I prefer gooseberry.” She said, sharply, hoping that this conversation would end. It was a feeling Tina was accustomed to.

“Oh just wait til’ you taste one, dearie. Would you like to try one?” The lady leered at her with a sinister grin.

There was something distinctly wrong about random women who wander around forests, giving out free bags of apples. Also, Tina thought with a flinch, gingerbread house lady must have died somehow, it wouldn’t surprise her one bit if it was from this weird woman’s apples.

“You know, I think I’ll pass actually.” Tina said, shuffling back a little to shut the door.

But the old lady stuck her foot in the door and forced her way inside, “Go on, have a bite.”

It was at this point that some of the magpies from yesterday flew at the elderly lady, diving towards her and jabbing her with their sharp beaks and crooked toes. Now, Tina wasn’t the biggest fan of the stranger with the apple obsession but the magpies were being a smidge unfair.

“Piss off!” The woman cried, “Stop it, go away, bog off!”

Tina glanced at the birds, concerned about their violent outbreak. One of the magpies caught eye contact with her and noted this discomfort, so he called to his friends to stop. The others halted in their actions and they scooted back, though their eyes were fixated on the lady.

“Oh my, my heart. My poor heart.” Said the old woman, hiccupping.

“You ought to head home, get some rest.” Tina suggested.

It would do everyone here a favour if she’d just leave the forest.

“Take some apple first, dear.”

Her perseverance was alarming and Tina edged further away.

“I think I’ll pass.”

“It’s a wishing apple!” She cried in desperation but Tina was already shutting the door again.

Out of options, the Duchess swooped at her and forced the apple into her mouth. Tina bit into it instinctively. Her limbs fell beneath her and she collapsed on the floor. Her eyelids fluttered shut and she fell into a deep, deep sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I know I said that this would be the last chapter but haha nope. It's not. I forgot how much I ramble in my fanfictions. The final chapter (or maybe not, idk man) will be up realllly soon though, I'm currently working on it. Hopefully Tina and Newt will finally meet then - again, I can't promise you that, I thought this would be a 6000 word mini-fic, what do I know? As always, thank you for reading this far. - H.


	7. Cacophonous Crying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I swear I tried to make this a final chapter but it just... didn't.

The face returned to Newt some ten minutes later, cheeks a flaming blue. He shuffled about in his frame awkwardly but offered no comment voluntarily. Pickett, who had previously been lifting pencils as though they were weights, scurried over to Newt and hid back in his pocket, apparently sensing some tension.

“Is… is everything alright?” Newt asked, frowning at the face in the mirror.

The mirror sniffed pointedly, “Your brother screamed when he saw me. He said… he said that my face was haunting, like I got trapped in the mirror by choice.”

Newt could only imagine quite how terrifying it must have been to have a face pop up, mid-shave, that was not your own. Most children are mistrustful of mirrors for a period of time, after all, everything’s on the wrong side in them. The majority, however, grow out of that fear, some even obsess over their reflection. Theseus would probably have nightmares for months.

“Trapped in the mirror?” Newt questioned, curious over how this happened.

“There’s not much oxygen in mirrors, honey pot, that’s why my skin tone is so unique.”

Newt didn’t care much for judging people by the colour of their skin. Skin is, after all, just a blanket for bones at the end of the day. Although he had to admit that the combination of blues and yellows that danced across the mirror face was something artful and wonderful, and really, one should always appreciate differences.

“Well, I think you have very nice skin, it suits you.” He told the mirror face, who beamed in response.

“Aren’t you the sweetest little thing! Although, this is a little awkward, you’re, er, not exactly my type Newt. I’ve always considered you as more a homie, or a son even.”

The word ‘always’ concerned Newt slightly and he wondered, not for the first time today, how long exactly the mirror had been watching over him. Regardless, he supposed it was better to be friendzoned by a mirror than have to reject one and attempt to avoid any and all mirrors out of sheer awkwardness forever. Wouldn’t that be complicated!

“Oh- no. No, I wasn’t um, wasn’t flirting with you.”

“Sure you weren’t, sweet cheeks.” He said with a wink, “Anyway, Theseus sent some girl to help Tina and said he’d be here for you shortly. He has to pop some clothes on first.”

Newt averted eye contact, unenthusiastic to hear about how many clothes exactly his brother had been in when the mirror face had arrived. He chewed on his bottom lip and tried to think about nifflers instead. Nifflers are such endearing creatures that they work rather well as a distraction.

“That’s great. Thank you so much for taking the message, mirror, I appreciate it.”

“It’s fine, not like there’s much to do in here anyway.”

Newt didn’t miss the dull stare that the face gave to the bottom of his frame as he said this. How long had he been stuck in that miserable mirror? How did he get there? And why…

“Why don’t you leave?”

“I’d love to,” The face sighed pitifully, “but it’s not as easy as that, babes. Someone would have to smash the glass for that to work, and then they’d have seven years of bad luck.”

Superstition usually starts somewhere, even if it does seem awfully silly. It’s what makes ‘step on a crack, break your mum’s back’ particularly eerie.

“Besides, it’s not all bad. Every Christmas Eve I’m allowed out to leave people gifts.”

Newt was baffled and alarmed at this development, “You… you’re Santa Claus?”

Last year, Newt had been given a shockingly large bottle of face cream and some plasters. He supposed that the mirror had keened onto the fact that Newt had a spot of eczema on the side of his nose and an array of scratches from various creatures. And yet, he’d never have expected the mirror to be so perspective as to notice all of this. After all, how would he order all those gifts? The mirror face took Newt’s stunned silence as a sign of interest and babbled on for a bit.

“He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake. He knows if you’ve been bad or good, so be good for goodness sake.” The face sung, smile twisting spookily, “The mirror really does see it all, honey-pot. I watch ‘em wiping that lipstick off their cheek, and I hear them chatting… and other bits… in the bathroom, and I see others cry, cover up bruises, mend their face when their heart is breaking…”

**

Leta Lestrange, meanwhile, had been set the task of saving Tina Goldstein. It wasn’t really how she’d anticipated her morning to go. Honestly, she’d been looking forward to a morning cuddle with her boyfriend and then, perhaps a trip to the bookshop – it was her day off, for goodness sake! Moreover, Theseus had proposed to her last night, making her all the more enthused to spend some quality time with her soon-to-be husband. Instead, she’d been ordered upon waking up by her half-shaved fiancé to save some girl. Obviously, Leta was delighted when Theseus explained that this girl was Newt’s friend. Newt deserved to be happy. He was the sweetest, most lovely person, someone she considered family, and would be soon, though he’d seemed low for a while now. She intended to meet this Tina lady, remove the apple, and then interrogate her. There was absolutely no way that Leta would permit Newt to be hurt, not again. Not on her watch.

She marched through the forest, arms swinging, and wished suddenly that she’d had the foresight to wear something more forest-appropriate than a silk dress. Her shoes sunk into the earth miserably and her sleeves seemed to catch on every twig. There was a sudden clattering of hooves and she jumped back in surprise.

“Tolliver?”

It is somewhat difficult to describe a character who is only mentioned in a film and does not actually feature. However, we will (typically) fill in the gaps and build a somewhat vague picture of the man. Achilles Tolliver is a male. He is also an auror. His name, Achilles, derives from that bloke that got dipped in the River Styx by his heel, so we must presume that he doesn’t much mind water.

With that in mind, our Achilles had far too much hair gel in his hair and a raised chin. He was relatively popular in the auror office, mostly because his colleagues were fascinated at how the only injury he’d ever acquired was a cracked heel, which was due to his ridiculous shoes choices. Achilles Tolliver loved his shoes. He owned a pair of just about everything, from cowboy boats, stilettos, ballet slippers to crocs, sandals and Gucci slides. There was nothing better than strutting about confidently, knowing even if you did happen to look down in dismay, you’d be instantly cheered up by the fabulous shoes on your feet.

On this occasion, he was rehearsing for a fancy-dress party. He truly adored fancy-dress parties. Frequently he would be asked to pose next to people for photos, which delighted him, for he was slightly self-obsessed. Oh, yes, the mirror face new Achilles well, and gave him foot cream last Christmas. Achilles hadn’t ever ridden a horse before so, rather sensibly, thought it best to trot about in the forest on his day off. He was not expecting to come across Leta Lestrange.

“Leta! Jolly good to see you here. What are you doing in this dreary corner of the world?”

Achilles’ horse neighed a welcome of its own in her direction, white mane tipping back like the cock of a gentleman’s hat.

“Great to see you too.” Leta exclaimed, and filled him in with her situation quickly. She got on well with Achilles, despite his somewhat pompous manner.

“Curious place, the forest. Methinks this is a quest for me, prince of the wood. I’ve saved maidens countless times, of course.” He tried to force his face into a ‘very serious and noble knight’ sort of expression, which made him appear slightly constipated.

Leta shook her head hurriedly, “Oh no, that’s really not necessary.”

“Nonsense, dear Leta. Why, you trot back to Theseus, I daresay he’ll need a hand with getting that brother of his back on his feet.”

Leta doubted this highly.

“Theseus is quite capa-” She stopped. He’d already galloped off on that bloody horse of his.

**

Leta was right. Theseus was extremely capable. He simultaneously scolded his brother for being such a careless and daft human being for applying for the job in the first place, praised his ingenuity in using the mirror as a form of communication, and had anticipated Newt’s plan without even asking, positioning the mirror carefully above the door, so that it would fall on whoever opened it. He had just spelled Newt’s handcuffs to release him when a knock sounded. This seemed rather odd. The Duchess wasn’t one for knocking, especially not in her own house. Newt nodded to Theseus, who shifted the mirror off the door and opened it slightly. As predicted, it wasn’t the Duchess who drifted in, no. It was Jacob.

Jacob was a portly man with a cheerfully round face, rather like a cuter (and considerably less haunting) version of the walrus from Pingu. His off-white shirt was untucked, sleeves rolled up due to a nervous habit he had developed a while ago of toying with them.

Newt ran towards his friend, concerned, “Jacob? What’re you doing here?”

Jacob’s mouth opened slightly upon seeing Newt, as though he was exactly the person he’d been looking for. He dug through his pockets frantically, and smoothed out a bit of paper.

“This her?” He asked, urgently, passing the paper to Newt.

Newt examined it. The clipping depicted a young woman, Tina, he realised belatedly, whose eyes were brimmed full of tears. Her hand moved in the picture to shoo away the intrusive camera. His heart ached as he looked at her pained face and black garments. It was the day of her father’s funeral. How dare they make a report, make a story, out of her grief.

“Yes,” Newt frowned, “Although, it isn’t quite right.”

“Huh?”

He looked closer, yes, yes something wasn’t right at all. Her eyes. It wasn’t just the fact that she’d clearly been crying for a while, it was something more than that.

“She has eyes just like a salamander. Doesn’t come out well in the picture.” Newt said, with a half-hearted shrug.

“Don’t say that,” Jacob said, looking utterly flummoxed, “Never tell her that.”

“Why not?”

It was hardly an insult. And yet, this was the second person who assumed it was – the Duchess herself being the first – he didn’t get it. They evidently hadn’t looked at a salamander recently.

“Just don’t say nothing to her about no salamanders, all right?”

“Right, okay.” Newt muttered, though he personally could not understand their issue with them. Theseus shot Newt a wary look, silently communicating that he totally agreed with Jacob and the Duchess on this matter. _No salamanders_.

“Anyway, this cutting, Queenie gave it to me. Says she’s her sister?”

“Queenie? The girl you’ve been seeing is Queenie Goldstein?”

Jacob had been visiting a girl in a tower for quite some time now. The last time Newt spoke to Jacob – a few days before he landed this job – he had explained to him how overprotective this girl’s father was. It seemed that he wasn’t particularly fond of the no-maj community as well, something Newt struggled to comprehend. Why, anyone who tasted Jacob’s baking, or had the pleasure of being his friend, could appreciate that magic comes in many forms.

“I guess so.” Jacob said, distractedly settling himself down on the Duchess’ chair and spinning around on it.

“And… when she said her name was Queenie… it took you this long to work out that she was the missing Goldstein daughter.”

“I never claimed to be smart, Newt.”

Newt was about to object to this. Jacob was smart. Incredibly smart.

“Save your gossip for later. She’s coming.” Called Theseus in a carrying whisper, and placed the mirror back on the door.

Jacob frowned, evidently not sure what he’d walked in on, but shut his mouth anyway and moved off the chair. He’d always been slightly afraid of Theseus. He glanced at Newt confusedly. Newt crouched down next to him, and he joined him on the floor.

The doors opened with a powerful swing and the mirror came tumbling down. Vinda Rosier, still dressed in her costume, cried out in shock.

“Immobulus!” Theseus said calmly, wand pointed at the Duchess, who froze immediately. Shards of mirror cascaded around her, circling her in a pool of glass.

The face from the mirror spilled onto the floor like sunshine from an open window. The colours swirled around for a while until a form emerged of a man in scarlet slippers and bumblebee striped stockings. Newt frowned, he felt sure that he’d seen this person before, though he couldn’t quite place where.

“I don’t believe it,” Theseus muttered, “You’ve only gone and found the pied piper.”

**

Soon after arriving at the mines, Grumpy realised he’d left his lucky plaster at home and they’d retreated back. Obviously, upon arrival they recognised that Tina was not her usual self. She was not, it seemed capable of conversation or laughter or even scolding Doc when he left his mug out on the counter. They soon deduced that she’d fallen into a deep sleep, probably from eating the wrong sort of apple.

The dwarfs had, for some strange reason, put Tina in a glass coffin because of this. Where exactly this coffin came from was unclear, for it was a large, human sized coffin which couldn’t have been hidden away in a cupboard terribly easily. The dwarfs had placed flowers around Tina, making her hair a meadow of daisies and buttercups. This effort was thoughtful, although it resulted in a multitude of innocent bugs having to navigate their way out of her hair. Each dwarf had slumped down next to the coffin after they had exhausted all nearby patches of wildflower. Then, and only then, did they allow themselves to cry. There is no shame in crying. Provided you have enough water on you to remain hydrated it is a healthy and effective way to express emotion. The dwarfs cried a lot. So much, in fact, that their beards dripped onto the ground, giving it the impression that it was raining.

They had remained this way for a little while and then, rather rudely, a foolish looking man on a white horse had stampeded towards them.

“What ho, dwarfs? You don’t, perchance, happen to be crying because of an enchanted apple, do you?”

The dwarfs looked at one another. A prince. They’d been wondering when one of them would turn up here. Forests did seem to inhabit quite a few princes, after all, particularly if pretty girls like Tina were around.

“Yes, but you’ll meet my fist if you kiss her.” Sleepy grunted, irritated to even consider Tina going through the same misfortune as he.

“Kiss!” Achilles spluttered, “Why, my dear fellow, I can assure that I-”

“Tell us how to help her, sunshine, or trot off.” Sleepy demanded.

“Remove the apple from her mouth.” He muttered, thoroughly put off by this insolence towards princes.

Doc and Grumpy manoeuvred the coffin lid off Tina and Sleepy clambered on top of her. He tugged his sleeves up and opened her mouth. The apple was quite hard to miss, actually, it seemed to be stuck between her mouth and throat. He carefully moved it out and threw it on the floor in disdain. The apple had grown a sickly, orange colour in Tina’s mouth, no doubt unleashing some sort of sleeping potion.

Sleepy jumped back to the ground and the dwarfs watched with bated breath in trepidation of what might become of Tina. Tina rolled over and, because the coffin didn’t accommodate people who move in their sleep, fell onto the floor. She woke up immediately.

“Wha- did that apple seller drug me?”

Sleepy laid a hand on her shoulder comfortingly. It was rare that he could do this to humans (they’re awfully tall standing up), so he decided that he should really indulge himself.

“She did indeed, but this here man told us how we could save you.”

Tina’s glance flitted to Achilles, who was puffing himself up importantly.

“Scamander’s fiancée informed me of the situation,” Achilles said, lifting his chin up to really show off his ruffle-covered chest, “The scallywag was too busy to hop down here himself.”

Tina’s insides crumbled. Of course, Newt had a girlfriend. And, moreover, Newt had better things to do than rescue her. Her jaw trembled. She wanted to keel over and cry, to be cradled by her papa and told that everything would be alright. But sometimes your happy ending is disappointing. Sometimes everything ends with a prince, instead of your huntsman. And maybe, just maybe, your stories do not slot together quite as nicely as you’ve hoped.

“You’ll be safe now, my lady. No more dwarfs, no more evil witches.”

She let herself be picked up, whirled around in the air like a stream of bubbles, and placed on top of a horse. A numb sort of humming filled her head, and she let it consume her, take her, arms winding around Achilles’ waist robotically. She forced her head down, not wanting to see the dwarfs’ devastated and betrayed faces as they rode away without even saying goodbye. And as they rode, her brain felt like it was set on pause. Everything just sort of stopped. Achilles chattered on in front of her about the numerous glorious deeds he’d done over the last decade or so. But all she knew was that the little cottage with the dwarfs had been the warmest, most wonderful place she’d been in a long time, and now everything was closing. It felt like a storybook was slamming on her, crushing out any dreams she might have had, forced to stick to the script.

Except, this wasn’t a fairy-tale. Not exactly. And eventually the green canopy of the forest wore away and she found herself being lifted, again, as though weightless. Then, she was on the ground. Outside the Duchess’ house. Her father’s house. Her house. The place she’d tried so hard to run away from. The place she’d felt miserable, trapped, for so long. And there he was, Newt, rushing at her with open arms and a smile that made her heart flutter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is slightly rushed lol but I hope you enjoy it anyway, getting closer to the ending... I said three chapters ago.  
> Also has anyone seen the beautiful artwork on tumblr of Tina as Snow White and Newt as the Prince? It's absolutely stunning, makes me wish I'd made my Newt a Prince!


	8. Comforting Quiet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst & Fluff

“Tina,” He called to her, enveloping her in his arms.

Tina let herself make believe, just for a moment, that Newt was the prince and this was the happy ending instead. Making believe is just another word for dreaming, after all. And it was just a harmless dream, an innocent, pointless sort of thing. An image of peace and love and an undeniable sense of belonging that she hadn’t bothered missing until now. The dwarfs had been so kind, so far removed from this painful, corrupt world but it didn’t feel right somehow. Their home was lovely, messy, chaotic and enchanting, yet now that she was out of it, she realised that it was never _her_ home. She never ventured to the mines with them, never got the opportunity to explore her own dreams, it was just a big game of playing mother goose to seven infuriating (and very sweet) children. But now, bundled up in Newt’s arms, she felt like her body was as light as leaves.

Tina would retreat later, to the nest of duvet in her room. Yes, she would bury herself underneath the weighted pile of blankets, let them muffle her sobs, let herself fall into a fitful dream about men with suitcases, and dwarfs in cottages, and poisoned apples, and try not to overthink how the smell of laundry detergent, the softness of her covers, somehow reminds her of him. She was doing fine before he came along – never had to bother thinking about troublesome and traitorous emotions like these before – and she would be fine after too. She would ignore, or better yet destroy, that irritating desire to be wanted by someone, and try to move past this.

“Newt,” She said back, utterly hopeless, “Newt.”

His nose dug into her hair and it took her a moment to recognise that she was crying. It took her even longer to register that he was crying too. Fat tears sliding down his cheeks, dampening her hair.

“You’re okay,” He murmured, soothingly, “it’s all alright. The Duchess is gone.”

Somehow, Tina completely forgot about Vinda Rosier. Yes, that was why this whole thing happened in the first place. Her father had to marry that jealous trout and she decided that murdering Tina was the solution to everything. That murdering everything solved things, actually. That’s why Newt was hired in the first place. And, ironically, Newt, who couldn’t hurt a fly, had somehow arranged for the Duchess to disappear. She pulled back for a moment to examine his face.

“Gone?”

Over his shoulder, she saw a dark-haired woman approaching, a confident swing in her step. Tina forced herself to pull out of his arms entirely, realising how pathetic and childish she must have looked, sobbing into Newt’s arms. This woman was not childish. She was the picture of maturity in an elegant cranberry coloured dress and a wry smile pressed on her lips.

Newt turned to follow Tina’s line of sight, eyes meeting Leta’s warily. A buzz of anxiety rose in his chest. Leta never much liked him having friends. She’d always explained it as her being overprotective, which could be true, he supposed. A part of him wanted to keep Tina a secret from Leta, however, to hide her away in his suitcase, away from any harm, intentional or otherwise, that might be caused. He found himself stepping towards Tina, almost defensively, as she drew closer.

Leta smiled between the pair, who she thought looked like a promising couple of friends, “He did brilliantly. It was really quite spectacular.” She quickly summarised to Tina what had happened and the measures the aurors were taking to ensure her safety.

Newt beamed at their interactions, pleased to see that Tina had, somehow met Leta’s approval.

Leta yawned, and Tina couldn’t help but follow her ring finger as her hand moved to cover her mouth, “Sorry – long day. Think I’m going to hunt down Theseus.”

A silence settled and the two slowly headed towards the manor house. Newt wasn’t especially good at silences. It wasn’t that he felt uncomfortable, not exactly, it was just that he was hyperaware of Tina. Her hands were repetitively smoothing down a crease in her skirt, a nervous habit of hers. Did she want him to stay? Should he make conversation? Would he be expected to pop down here every now and then, working as _her_ huntsman this time?

“Er – yes – that was Leta Lestrange and I’m her-” He mumbled, because he remembered with a jolt that Leta never had introduced herself.

“Fiancé.” Tina completed, clambering up the steps of the manor with impressive speed.

Newt stumbled after her, brain half wondering how she her legs were moving so much faster than his, half trying to comprehend what she’d just said.

“What?”

Tina looked down, hand clasped around a grand lionhead doorknob, “Sorry, yeah I should have congratulated you earlier.”

The door swung open and she walked briskly to the light switch, jamming it on and off a few times before deciding that it had somehow broken. Bloody typical. You leave your house in the hands of your evil stepmother for, what, a week or so, and she somehow manages to bust the lighting. Vinda probably decided that light switches are too much of a no-maj invention to be worth using. In fact, it was a wonder that she hadn’t put up large torches to fire up with magical flames every night.

“No that’s-”

“Lumos.” She said, loudly, making a mental note to fix the lights later.

Newt’s brows were furrowed, “Tina – about Leta-”

She didn’t understand his persistence to talk about this. Did he know? How could he know? No. He didn’t know. He had no idea how she was feeling. She’d made sure to act in a way that was, most certainly, not frosty or cruel earlier, smiling even after she'd noticed the ring. Newt deserved to be happy. Even if that meant she suffered for a week or two in self-pitying anguish. It wasn't like she'd ever told him about her dumb crush.

“Yes, I’ve just said, I’m happy for you.”

And she turned towards Vinda’s old study.

“Yeah, well, don’t.” He said, unexpectedly.

Tina paused, and spun around. What a ludicrous thing to say. Obviously, she was happy for him – and she should be, why shouldn’t she? Newt was blushing furiously, apparently feeling just as uncomfortable as she was to discuss this.

“What?”

“Please don’t be happy. Uh, no, no. I’m sorry. I don’t…” Newt paused, eyes wide, “Uh, obviously, I—Obviously I want you to be. And I hear that Achilles saved you, very romantic. Uh, which is wonderful. Sorry—” He gestured vaguely, hands flying distractedly, “What I’m trying to say is, I want you to be happy, but don’t be happy that I’m happy, because I’m not.”

Tina stared at him and stepped closer, because he seemed to be determined not to meet her gaze.

“Happy.”

She kept staring.

“Or engaged.”

If anything, her stare intensified.

“What I’m trying to say is, I want you to be happy, but don’t be happy that I’m happy, because I’m not... happy.”

This made no sense at all. He should be happy. Engagements make people happy. That’s why you propose, after all, because it’s a great idea that should produce a heck of a lot more happiness. And Leta seemed happy. Delighted, in fact. Tina’s cheeks were blazing. Did that mean that he’d felt pressured to agree to this engagement? Did Leta take advantage of his kindness?

“What?” Tina asked, and, really, she felt that she’d said that word far too many times today.

“My brother is engaged to Leta, not me.” He explained.

Oh.

“Right.” Tina said, with a stern nod, “Well. Just for your information, Achilles didn’t save me, Sleepy did. I don’t much likes princes actually.”

Newt was fully prepared to set some red caps on Achilles if he made Tina even remotely uncomfortable. He was also slightly confused at who or what Sleepy was but felt this was a conversation for another time.

“Oh?”

Tina stepped back a little, registering how much she’d crowded Newt against the wall. To her surprise, he shuffled forwards, eyes squinted as if he was trying to discern exactly why she didn’t like princes.

“They ride horses and, er, horses are… mainstream. I think I prefer thestrals and thunderbirds.” She rambled.

He stared at her for a moment, trying to decipher what exactly she was trying to tell him. She leaned closer to him, impossibly, and Newt felt an intense emotion curling in his chest, something scary and real and oh so strong. He ducked his head down and saw Pickett, hanging out of his pocket with a little bit of paper in his hands.

“Oh, I have something for you,” He said, and passed the clipping to her.

Tina stepped back, examining the cutting with a mournful smile. She remembered this being taken, remembered being absolutely furious at the audacity of the reporter who decided it was wise to whip out a camera on the day of her father’s funeral. It was strangely empowering, actually. She’d slapped the reporter after he’d taken the photo, left a bright red mark on his cheek that had made Vinda tut in disapproval.

“You know, your eyes really are–” He cut himself off and looked down at his shoes regretfully.

“Are what?” Tina asked distractedly, still focused on the photo.

“I’m not supposed to say.”

Tina looked up at this. It upset her that he felt as though she’d judge him for whatever he’d say. She thought that he was brilliant, absolutely brilliant, even with that ridiculous suitcase of his.

“You’re allowed to say, Newt.” She said, in a hush voice that stopped any and all self-control he had.

“I mean, it’s just a picture of you from the paper, but it’s interesting because your eyes in newsprint… See, in reality they have this effect in them, Tina… It’s like fire in water, in dark water. I’ve only ever seen that—” He paused, feeling quite ridiculous, “I’ve only ever seen that in—”

Tina smiled, somehow knowing exactly what he meant, “Salamanders?” she whispered.

He nodded.

And they were close again. Close enough that she could look back at him, could have counted all of those funny little freckles, scattered across his nose and cheeks like splattered ink. She thought his eyes were quite beautiful too, thought everything about him was quite beautiful actually. But she didn’t know how to say this and apparently Newt didn’t either because he was worrying his bottom lip between his teeth nervously.

“Your sister’s alive, Tina. Jacob’s been–” He paused. Tina probably didn’t want to know that his best friend had a massive crush on her sister, “She’s been living in a tower.”

“A tower?”

“A tower.” He confirmed, with a sturdy nod.

Tina folded her hands together and started pacing up and down the hallway. She had been so sure that Queenie was dead. Accepted it years ago. Her mother went crazy from the stress of it all, wouldn’t sleep at night, wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t do anything except conspire about where and why her daughter could be alive still, withering away until the combination of that and dragon pox finished her off. Papa never stopped believing either. That’s why the stars brought him such comfort, he told her once, because Queenie was out there, under the very same moon as the one above them. He could tell, he could feel it. But after years and years of waiting, after seeing both of your parents pass away, you begin to resent and regret all the waiting.

“There’s no way that…” Tina trailed off in thought.

Newt put a hand on her arm, rubbing it comfortingly.

“Tina did… did your parents ever say that she was a Legilimens?”

Tina looked up at this, sharply. Because no, no they had not confirmed that. Queenie disappeared at such a young age, after all. But she had suspected it. Queenie was a strangely empathetic little thing. Such an easy baby most of the time, giggling and smiling, charming everyone who met her. Except that one time that Tina, an unsteady toddler at this point, had tripped over her own feet outside and scraped her knees on the gravel. Queenie had cried whilst Tina fell, before Tina had even registered her injury. She hadn’t heard her little sister cry before and had been so anxious about what this wailing was about that she didn’t even bother with her own pain until her mother ran out. It was only when Tina’s wounds had been kissed better that Queenie, who refused her bottle or anything else, quietened down. And this was not the only incident. When Papa’s mother died, Tina lost her favourite doll, Mama cut her finger, Queenie cried.

“Holy hippogriff. It really is her.” She murmured, confused and excited for what was to come.

Newt smiled at her, “I, er, I should probably head off.”

He felt as though this moment was too private, too personal, for his presence to be comforting. And he knew that he wasn’t especially good at social things, best not to mess it up now.

“Oh, well, I, I’ll see you soon?”

She hoped that she didn’t sound too desperate, too hopeful. But she'd never met someone like Newt, and she definitely did not want to lose him, even if it meant that she seemed a smidge pathetic.

“Of course, I mean, if you, er, want a huntsman still?”

Tina frowned, “Not, um, I don’t really want a huntsman as such. I’ll pay you – buckets if you need it – for all the horrible stuff she made you do-”

“Oh no, that really won’t be necessary-”

“-I more meant, well, I suppose I wanted you here as a friend, or, um?”

Silence fell upon them, but never had silence been so loud to Newt. He took a step closer to her, feeling a sudden burst of confidence, ears ringing. Tina’s eyes flickered to his lips. She had never wanted someone to kiss her more.

It was at that exact moment that a leap of faith was taken.

Quite literally.

Pickett, the cheeky bugger, sprung from Newt’s lapel to Tina’s shoulder. Newt leaned forward quickly, snatching the bowtruckle up to put him back.

“I’m so sorry abou-” Newt started, mortified by Pickett’s rude behaviour.

Tina dived forward, bumping his nose with hers, giving him a moment to pull away. But Newt didn’t pull away. He cupped her face with one hand, and Tina had never felt so precious, so safe, so secure. He looked at her as though she was the most beautiful, wonderful being he'd ever seen, curling his other hand to card through her hair. She closed her eyes, heart beating too fast, and pressed her lips against his in a gentle peck. Newt’s lips weren’t soft and plush like a prince’s might have been. They definitely needed lip balm, and they trembled horrendously and – in short, it was the best kiss she’d ever had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, it ends. Thank you so much for anyone who has continued reading this, it's been a wild journey haha. Special thanks to everyone who left kudos and comments, they've made me smile a lot.


End file.
